


Not Who I Used To Be

by Drizzt_Do_Urden



Category: Throne of Glass Series - Sarah J. Maas
Genre: Alternate Canon, Amnesia, Assassins & Hitmen, Bisexual Male Character, Canon Rewrite, Dark Fantasy, F/F, Gay Male Character, Internalized Homophobia, Intrigue, Lesbian Character of Color, M/M, Not Canon Compliant, POV Bisexual Character, POV Lesbian Character, POV Queer Character, Princes & Princesses, Rewrite, Scheming, Tournaments
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-12-11
Updated: 2021-03-06
Packaged: 2021-04-17 21:14:43
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 21
Words: 58,623
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21755134
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Drizzt_Do_Urden/pseuds/Drizzt_Do_Urden
Summary: Another rewrite of Throne of Glass, except we know from the start that Aelin is Celaena Sardothien. Basically just another overhaul of the princess plot, but different from the drabble series in that Aelin knows she's Celaena. Also different from canon in that Celaena's motives at the start of ToG are VASTLY different and more in line with those of a deposed crown princess.Also, Aelin is 100% pure lesbian in this, so none of the het romances will be appearing.
Relationships: Aedion Ashryver/Kyllian, Aelin Ashryver Galathynius | Celaena Sardothien/Nehemia Ytger, Dorian Havilliard/Chaol Westfall
Comments: 52
Kudos: 81
Collections: Throne of Glass Rewrites or Reimaginings





	1. Endovier

It had been a year since Aelin had last tasted freedom. Two years since she'd finally escaped from that horrid life as Adarlan's Assassin-the life which Arobynn had forced on her in order for her to pay her debts to him. And only a year since her brief, blissful career as a pianist for the symphony was interrupted by Sam Cortland blackmailing her into helping him. 

"I know your secret, _Aelin_," he'd said that night after the show. "That's your real name, isn't it? Not Celaena Sardothien."

"So Arobynn told you, did he?" Aelin had scoffed. "What do you _want_? I don't have any money to give you, so if you're looking for that-" 

"I don't want money from a dirt-poor pianist," Sam had scoffed. "I want your help. I want you to help me kill the crime lord Ioan Jayne." 

_But of course_, she thought to herself. Despite being Arobynn's designated heir, Sam had never been as good as Aelin was, not with weapons or stealth or _anything_. No doubt Arobynn had handed the bastard a contract to prove his worth as heir, a contract which Sam _of course_ couldn't handle. 

A matter which, of course, Aelin couldn't care less about. If Sam wanted to prove he wasn't dead weight to the King of the Assassins, let him struggle with that on his own. To say that they had never been friends was an understatement-Sam had always hated that she was better than him, and Aelin had always resented him for not being locked up in the keep like she was, for his still-bright future, that Arobynn somehow cared about Sam more despite having inferior skills to Aelin. 

"I already told Arobynn, I'm out of the killing business," Aelin snapped as she slowly turned on her heel and began walking away. "I've paid my debts; I don't need to take another life ever again." 

"Fine," Sam replied, "Don't help me. I'll just mosey on down to the palace and tell the king who you really are and where you live. The reward money from that should be _more_ than enough for my purposes." 

Aelin froze, turned back around and glared at him. 

"You wouldn't dare." 

"Oh, but what's the life of one former washed-out rival compared to enough gold florins to pay my debts and take me all the way to the southern continent?" Sam asked with a smirk on his face as he examined his nails. "Nothing. Absolutely nothing." 

"Fine," Aelin grumbled. "I'll help you. But after this, you and Arobynn have to leave me alone. For good." 

Sam smiled evilly. 

"Deal." 

Of course, it didn't work out quite as planned. Sam, being the incompetent moron that he was, naturally got them both captured by Ioan Jayne's goons. And because Aelin's own life was explicitly worth less to him than his own, Sam also quite naturally ended up striking a bargain with the crime lord. One which, in exchange for letting Sam go, Sam revealed to Ioan that Aelin was Celaena Sardothien. Ioan had, also quite naturally, once in possession of that knowledge, chosen to kill Sam and turn "Celaena" into the authorities 

Aelin had hoped they would hang her. Then at least, there would be an end to this miserable existence. But no. Instead, the magistrate chose to sentence her to a lifetime of slavery in the salt mines of Endovier- a brutal hellscape made up of beatings and never-ending work mining rock salt. 

Which, in all honesty, was hardly all that different from life with Arobynn. Granted, there were no shackles with Arobynn, and he'd never put salt in her wounds after beating her, but the lack of freedom was the same. The major difference, really, was that Aelin's new duties were mining salt for the empire instead of killing people. 

And hey, the dark-skinned Eyllwe prisoners were rather nice-they cleaned the salt out of her wounds and taught her how to speak Eyllwe. One of them had even provided salve for Aelin after her first whipping. Said slave was, of course, brutally killed by the Overseers later, but that was life in a slave mine. 

Thus, much to the surprise of the guards, who expected her to die within the month like all the other slaves, Aelin survived for a whole year. She got up before dawn with the other slaves, mined salt until dusk, and then repeated it all over again, day after day. What surprised Aelin was that it had only been a year. It felt like forever.

They'd expected to break her, but there was nothing left to break. Aelin had already been hurt so many times, it hardly mattered any more. All Endovier was doing was smashing up the loose collection of glass pieces that made up Aelin. 

Until now. Now, this intrusion into Aelin's quiet misery, this...Prince Dorian who wanted her to compete in some tournament to become the king's hired thug, who believed this opportunity of his was better than Endovier...it was laughable. As if killing people in the service of the man who had murdered her parents and stolen her kingdom would _ever_ be a preferable option to anything.

"Is that it?" Aelin snapped, staring up into the prince's blue eyes. "Is my 'freedom' all you have to offer? Then in that case, you can stick your offer where the sun doesn't shine." 

Prince Dorian's jaw dropped, along with that of his bodyguard, Chaol. Clearly, that was not the response they'd expected. 

_They clearly have no idea who I really am_, Aelin thought to herself smugly. _They must only know me as Celaena._

"We...we...he'd pay you," Prince Dorian started, unable to deal with this new development, "My...father would pay you quite handsomely if you win the tournament." 

Aelin spat on the ground. 

"I was _paid handsomely_ when I worked for the Assassin's Guild, too," she told him. "And every single florin I was paid went directly to my master, Arobynn. Do you have anything else?" 

"Y-you'd get to keep the money this time," Prince Dorian pointed out. "You...do realize that, don't you?"

"I don't think so," Chaol scoffed behind her. "Clearly, her mind is far too gone." 

_Keeping _the money? Being paid and..._keeping_ it? That was a strange concept, money being a reward and not a mere formality extended by the client. Of course, it was still coming from the king of Adarlan...

"You'd also, of course, be pardoned for your previous crimes," Prince Dorian added nervously. "After...a period of four months, should you so choose, you could leave my father's service and start off with a clean slate." 

Keeping her own money...a royal pardon...potential freedom, once again...this offer was getting less and less repugnant by the minute. Of course, it still came with the caveat that she had to survive a brutal tournament and kill people for the king...but who was to say that Aelin had to keep up her end of the bargain perfectly? She was always getting betrayed no matter what she did anyway, by Ansel in the Red Desert, by Sam Cortland, by, arguably, the gods-perhaps it was time she did some betrayal back. 

And hey, living in the palace, alongside the king? Wasn't that the perfect opportunity to get revenge? For her great-uncle, her parents, for all of Terrasen? 

"I accept," Aelin declared. "Take me to the palace."   



	2. Rifthold

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Aelin finally arrives in Rifthold, and sees Nehemia for the first time.

The minute that Aelin entered the capital, she immediately regretted her decision. 

Because Rifthold was _exactly_ the same as she'd left it two years ago. The exact _fucking_ same! The same old beggars on the same old streets, being ignored by the same old masses of people as they cried out for the tiniest bit of spare change. The same farmers' stalls, hawking their goods to the city's usual crowd of housewives, stout cooks and kitchen maids, and unfortunate slave girls, all of whom were out to buy what they needed to make dinner that night. The same old craftsmen, busy about their work, with their apprentices milling about, fetching things for them and assisting them in whatever way they could, and sometimes, getting beaten. 

The same upper-crust, milling in and out of shops and theaters and cafes, dressed in ostentatious finery and wearing far, far too much jewelry, as if they desired to put the all of Adarlan's ill-gotten gains on display. The poor nursemaids, most of whom were probably enslaved, desperately trying to keep their bratty aristocratic charges in line. The young couples, in their elaborate dance of flirtation under the watchful eye of their middle-aged chaperones. The young eligible daughters, happily chatting with each other as they drank tea, shopped, or just generally strolled about. The stern patriarchs and stout matriarchs, those who held the entirety of Erilea in their grip, leisurely walking around the parks "for their health". 

And, worst of all, the same crowd gathered around the same old executioner's block, where, today, two poor souls were about to have their heads cut off. One of whom appeared to be a woman with sepia-colored skin and long box braids typical of those from Eyllwe, dressed in a luxurious yellow-gold gown. She was probably up there for having the audacity to be too successful, too rich, while at the same time, being too dark-skinned for the king's liking. Or perhaps she had simply had the bad luck to be either in love with or married to a man too pale for society's liking. 

It did not matter. The woman's real crime, of course, was being a black woman. Adarlan hated those as much as it hated the concept of countries that didn't belong to it. 

The other condemned person was a disheveled, portly man whose wheat-colored hair was coming loose from his queue, and whose shirt and waistcoat did not at all look clean. He could be up there for many things. Perhaps he was a thief, or a murderer. Or perhaps he had just made a snide remark about the king in the wrong person's hearing. Not that his crime mattered either; he would still be dying today. 

And indeed, not long after Aelin acknowledged that fact, the executioner's ax fell swiftly down on the man's neck, causing his head to fall into the basket below the block, to the delight of the crowd below. 

That accomplished, a guard then kicked the Eyllwe woman down on to her knees in front of the block, and the executioner lifted his ax, about to strike. 

"Stop!" cried a woman's voice in the crowd. "Stop right there!" 

Everyone paused and then turned to glance at what had to be the most beautiful woman in all the world, walking through the crowd, accompanied by half a dozen guards, with a singular determination on her face as she carried a scroll in her hand with the king's seal. 

The woman's skin was a rich, pure mahogany in color, her midnight hair an elegant group of braids fashioned into an upsweep. She wore a marvelous orange sleeveless dress, with a golden choker around her neck and bangles on her arms, with nothing but sandals on her feet. Her figure was that of a goddess carved by a master sculptor; tall, elegant, and regal. 

She was the stuff of poems and songs, the kind of woman whom men dueled to the death for a chance to win her heart or at the very least defend her honor. 

The woman moved with pure grace up onto the platform where the condemned woman was and turned towards the crowd.

"I, Princess Nehemia Ytger of Eyllwe, have come to deliver a pardon," the woman announced. "His Majesty King Dorian Havilliard, First of His Name, has seen in his wisdom that this woman here's contributions to Adarlan as a whole outweigh her minor fit of treasonous speech, and as such, there is no need for her blood to be spilled on this day." 

A...princess? From Eyllwe? Delivering pardons from the king? What was this? 

The mysterious princess then handed the executioner the scroll. The executioner lowered his ax, took the scroll, broke open the seal, and began reading it. When he was finished, he gave the scroll back to the princess and said, 

"I see." 

The executioner then set down his ax, kicked the Eyllwe woman, and barked, 

"You're free to go, Countess Kaltain." 

_Countess_? This _Eyllwe_ prisoner was a _countess_? In Adarlan? How had _that_ happened?

Shocked, the countess stood up, gathered herself, and held her head high as she walked off of the platform and disappeared into the crowd. The Princess Nehemia then nodded to the executioner, who bowed to her and began gathering his things. The princess then walked off the platform and back into the streets, as if saving people from brutal beheadings was routine. 

"How long has she been here?" Aelin asked Chaol breathlessly as he shepherded her away from the execution block. 

"Countess Kaltain?" Chaol replied dispassionately. "She's a fairly recent arrival at court; I'm not surprised you don't know her. She was only made a countess six months ago, after exposing a rebel plot against the king-" 

"Not the _prisoner_!" Aelin snapped. "_Her_! That-_vision_ of Lumas-blessed loveliness and grace that just walked off the platform!" 

"Oh, you mean Princess Nehemia. She hasn't been at court for much longer than Kaltain-her father the king of Eyllwe sent her here three months ago to learn about the customs of Adarlan." 

_Why?_ Aelin thought to herself. _She's perfect the way she is._

"I wouldn't get too close to her, if I were you," Chaol warned Aelin as they continued walking. "She might have the king's favor _now_, but sooner or later, whatever little plan she's got brewing in her head will come to light, and you won't want to be near her when it does." 

Eventually, they at last made it towards the glass castle, the great monstrosity the King of Adarlan had constructed off the backs of her people. Just looking at it make her feel like vomiting.

"Now, Celaena, you'll be living in the stone part of the castle," Dorian told Aelin as the three of them walked through the red glass doors and into the castle proper. "You'll be posing as my latest mistress, Lady Lillian of House Gordaina." 

"To which, again, I _must_ protest," Chaol objected. "People will question why your competitor in the Games does not live in the barracks with the other potential Champions. Miss Sardothien will already draw far too much attention by virtue of her reputation and the fact that she is one of the few Champions with a royal sponsor-" 

Dorian smiled. 

"And I must point out to you, once again, that my bed has been rather empty as of late," he countered. "_Suspiciously_ empty, some folks in court would say. What has caused this lady-killer prince to suddenly become so chaste, they might ask?"

"One would think that the sudden and awful death of your mother would be explanation enough on that front, " Chaol grumbled.

"Only for the naive and sheltered," Dorian replied. "Of which in my father's court there are precious few. No, the vultures that circle my father are already beginning to question what I'm really up to. They see my daily devotions to the Great Goddess, and wonder what my newfound piety is concealing. They see my friends among the priesthood, and begin to speculate if I am plotting a coup with them."

Dorian frowned.

"I need to quash these whispers quickly," he said. "Before they reach the ear of Duke Perrington or worse, my father. For if my father suspects I've grown tired of waiting for his death to be natural, I'll be up next at the executioner's block." 

Chaol grimaced. 

"To think that people are so black of heart these days that honest piety is easily mistaken for scheming," he muttered.

Dorian rolled his eyes. 

"Such are the consequences of having the king for a father," he said with a shrug. "With him, it's better to appear a sex-obsessed fool than a man of any intelligence or integrity."

Dorian glanced briefly at Aelin and then turned his attention back to Chaol.

"But with her by my side in the right dresses, all those whispers will disappear," he continued. "To the court, I will once again be the famed lady-killer Prince Dorian." 

Dorian turned to Aelin. 

"That is, if...you agree to the subterfuge, Miss," he added. "I would hate to force any woman into being my mistress, even if it's only pretend." 

Aelin smiled. A place as the crown prince's mistress? Truly, they had no idea what sort of viper they were letting into their nest.

"Oh, yes, _gladly_," Aelin replied. "After all, given the choice between luxurious apartments in the palace and sharing a crowded barracks with bloodthirsty criminals who all want their freedom, who wouldn't pick the former option?" 

Dorian laughed. 

"But of course," he mused. "Now, would you mind taking my arm, Lady Gordaina?" 

Aelin linked her arm with Dorian's. 

"Not at all, Your Highness." 


	3. The Glass Castle

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Aelin prepares to make her move and meets her ladies' maid. Dorian prays and meets with his father.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I had Aelin be more tomboyish in this version. Also, Dorian is more pious. Personally, I think the whole "casanova but it's an act" angle to be very interesting, more interesting than canon, that's for certain.  
Chaol is illegitimate because him DELIBERATELY choosing to give up power in favor of serving an evil regime KIND of makes Chaol not a nice person. Here he was forced to be the king's bodyguard because Lord Westfall's wife made him.  
Arabella is my own invention. She's not a canon character by any means.

Aelin's suite was ridiculous. 

It were FAR too big for a newly appointed "mistress", for starters. Even if said mistress was supposed to be none other than that of the Crown Prince. In addition to her bedroom, bathing room, dressing room, and her very own personal dining room, there was a _music and gaming room_, for crying out loud! The whole apartment had twelve windows in all, which, Aelin supposed, was at least good in that the room offered plenty of places to escape from, but no glorified slut ought to have an apartment with _twelve windows_. 

Aelin's _own mother_ had not had an apartment with _twelve windows_, and Evalin Ashryver Galathynius had been wife to the Crown Prince of Terrasen _and_ sister to the King of Wendlyn. 

And it was just as luxurious as it was big. Each room was furnished in an ostentatious color scheme of gold and crimson, with far too many couches and deep-cushioned chairs for Aelin's liking. Was Aelin to hold salons with the court ladies when she wasn't slitting the other competitors' throats? 

The dressing room contained a dresser and an armoire for her clothes, and a vanity absolutely covered in cosmetics and beauty supplies. Most of which Aelin could not divine the purpose for-she'd never gone out much, anyway, and Arobynn had thought it more important to train her in weaponry than beautification. 

The only things Aelin did recognize, in fact, were the hairbrushes, ribbons, hairpins, and the rouge. The other three were because any fool would know what they were, and the rouge only because she'd once poisoned a woman's rouge on one of her missions. The use of white powder and the mysterious small tube filled with a black powder were mysteries to her, and the various flowery-smelling jars were beyond Aelin's knowledge. 

Aelin snatched a hairbrush, some ribbons, and a couple of hairpins, and closed the dressing room door. She'd clear out the rest of the cosmetics later. 

In the bedroom lay the crowning jewel of it all, a massive, canopied bed which could fit three people, and there would still be enough room that none of them would notice their companions. A casual inspection revealed that the rich red duvet was, indeed, velvet, and that the deep golden sheets were, as Aelin suspected, silk. 

If this was how they designed the rooms of a mistress, then Aelin didn't want to think about what an orgy of imperialist excess the royal family's rooms must be. In Terrasen, things had been much simpler. They had slept in furs in the cold months, and plain linens in the warmer months, and had liked it. 

But at least they wouldn't be enjoying such excess for long. Already she was much farther along than she'd expected to be at this point. The competition had barely started, and already she had a suite which adjoined the Crown Prince's rooms. Now it was a mere matter of finding out where the rest of the royal family's rooms were, and they'd be history.

Well, that, and familiarizing herself with her targets. Apparently, Queen Georgiana had died sometime within the last year all on her own. Aelin needed to find out if the king had taken another wife, or if there was a favorite mistress soon to inherit that position. She also needed to memorize their routines, their habits, everything about them. 

But before she did ANY of that, Aelin needed to find some weapons to kill them with. And come up with an escape plan once she'd done the deed. 

Aelin set the hair supplies down on a nightstand near her bed, and then went over to one of the bedroom windows. 

Sure enough, there were guards all around her chambers, which was fair enough-they _did_ at least know her as an assassin, after all. However, there were only nine in total-and that included the guard outside her door. Each were armed with a sword, knife, and crossbow. The last of which was a heavy weight to carry for hours on end, so of course the guards had chosen to strap their crossbows across their backs like idiots. If Aelin were to escape right now, they would waste precious seconds grabbing and loading them-during which Aelin would already have stolen their swords and slit their throats.

And then, after that, she would escape into the game park near the edge of the gardens-another imperialist excess, because apparently hunting in forests wasn't good enough for the Havilliard royal family. Once that happened, since her chambers appeared to be on the south side of the palace, the Avery River and freedom were just beyond the game park. 

Now as to weapons-whatever was inside those cosmetics might be able to stun or poison her enemies, but eventually Aelin would require more substantive weapons. Of course, if they were foolish enough-and they might _just_ be foolish enough-they would allow her to eat with knives, any number of which Aelin could easily spirit away from the table and hide in the canopy. But dinner was a long way off, and hopefully Aelin could already come up with some makeshift weapons before then. 

Aelin reentered the dressing room and examined the mending basket for needles. No such luck; apparently ladies of Adarlan's court were too dainty to mend their own clothes. Or, more likely, her captors had anticipated this train of thought. Damn. 

Ah well. At least there were hairpins. Aelin took a couple, broke off their heads, and then walked back into the bedroom. She then began whittling her chosen pins down into shivs. Once done, she smiled and hid them in the canopy. 

The hairpin shivs, would, of course eventually break, but before that happened she'd have real knives stored up there as well. Now to see if there was anything in the game room.

And there was, oh yes, there definitely was. There was a billiards table, for heaven's sake, a billiards tables. With cues along the far wall and heavy balls on the green felt table. Chaol and Dorian were _idiots _for giving her access to these_. _Never mind stealing their swords-a few of the balls, thrown correctly, would either kill or at the very least incapacitate the guards posted around her windows. And the cues...well, sharpened into makeshift spears, or simply pointed in the most sensitive parts of the human body, would be _very_ helpful. 

There were not, sadly enough, idiotic enough to store the silverware right in the dining room. But there were plenty of heavy pieces of flatware stored in the cabinets lining the walls that Aelin could break over someone's head if necessary. 

All in all, it was not bad on the weaponry front. Even if they were smart enough to not give her access to knives, she still had more than enough at her disposal. And eventually, she would have access to real weapons for the competition-weapons she just might be able to take away while no one was looking. 

A servant then appeared at the door, to announce the arrival of the court tailor. 

And thus the next hour was spent being measured and pinned, and having to decide between various fabrics and colors. 

The latter of which put Aelin in an awkward position. Most of her missions had not required fancy clothing, so she'd spent most of her time wearing dark pants and tunics, and the occasional servant's dress for infiltrating wealthy homes. The only times she'd ever needed pretty clothes were when Aroybnn took her to the symphony or if he needed her to pose as his niece for something. For these occasions, she'd had one formal dress, which Arobynn had decided would be made out of yellow linen. 

Thus Aelin chose the colors at partially at random and partially based on what her mother had claimed looked good on her all those years ago, before the fall of Terrasen. As for styles, Aelin left that up to the tailor.

When the tailor left, Aelin began to dress, only to be stopped by an older female voice saying, 

"Shouldn't you bathe before?" 

Aelin turned, and found a plump older woman in the cobalt and peach gown that marked her as one of the royal household's servants. 

Bathing before dressing...what fresh hell was that? Aelin swore, these courtiers were as vain as peacocks! And besides, she'd already bathed back at Endovier, after accepting the prince's offer. 

"I already bathed at home three days ago," Aelin told the woman, doing her best to affect a vapid, spoiled noblewoman voice. "I'm perfectly good for the remainder of the week." 

The woman in the capital raised an eyebrow. 

"Here at court, we try to bathe at least every other day, " she said. "To do less would be considered highly uncouth, _Miss Sardothien_." 

Aelin's jaw dropped. Who had told this random maid her identity? Dorian? Chaol? 

"You...you know who I am?" she gasped. 

"Yes, my lady," the woman replied. "Don't worry, I'm the only one who knows. Well, that and the guards, of course." 

The woman curtsied. 

"My name is Phillipa Spindlehead," she said. "I'm to be your ladies' maid, Miss Celaena." 

Well...Aelin supposed that it was only natural for the prince's mistress to have a personal servant of her own. After all, Aelin _was_ supposed to be posing as a noblewoman. But the idea of having needing help to dress herself...that was rather disquieting. 

"You may go," Aelin said dismissively, gesturing for Phillipa to leave, "I can dress myself with no trouble."

Phillipa's mouth twisted itself into a smirk. 

"I would think that after a year in Endovier, you would need someone who knew the latest fashions for young ladies," she pointed out. 

"I've never followed the latest fashions in my entire life," Aelin scoffed. 

"All the more reason you need my help," Phillipa countered. "You are the prince's mistress now, Miss Sardothien. If you are to keep up that pretense, you must learn to navigate the world of fashion before you become the mockery of court. Your life is no longer just about slitting throats and cashing checks; now you also have to deal with public opinion. Something I wager you know nothing about." 

Damn it. Phillipa had a point. Unless Aelin was on a mission, or Arobynn was taking her somewhere, she'd mostly spent her time in the Keep, training or playing the pianoforte. Her life, up until now, had been in the shadows. The last time she'd been on the receiving end of anything like this kind of attention, Terrasen was still a free nation. If she was to survive the publicity, she'd need help. 

"Alright," Aelin agreed. "You can dress me. But only if you tell me this-how and when did Queen Georgiana die?" 

"To a nasty case of smallpox, not three months after you were sent to Endovier," Phillipa replied. "Why?" 

"No reason," Aelin said. "And who, if anyone, has replaced Her Majesty as queen?" 

"No one yet," Phillipa informed her, frowning. " However, the king's mistress, Arabella of House Trelliser, might very well be assuming the position any day now. Again, I ask why?" 

Aelin smiled. 

"Because it's good to stay abreast of current events." 

* * *

* * *

"Great Goddess above," Dorian prayed as he knelt before the altar in the chapel. "I come to you once again to pray that my mother's soul has reached peace in the other world-"

"And here I thought we were leaving piety behind us," Chaol murmured behind him. 

Dorian turned to face his bodyguard.

"Only in public," he explained. "In private I shall continue to be as pious as I can." 

Chaol grimaced. 

"If I were in your place, I'd rather be known as a honorable man and die for than live under the false mantle of a cad," he said.

"Easy for a lovechild born in Anielle to say," Dorian countered. "You didn't grow up at court like I have. You have yet to learn what a nest of vipers you've entangled yourself with."

Chaol scowled. 

"It's because I'm a _lovechild_ that honor means everything to me," he confessed. "Lord Westfall might have raised me on his estate alongside his other children, but even if all six of them died horribly, all I'd inherit would be a pittance, unless Lord Westfall inexplicably chose to pass over his brother and nephews in favor of me. And that was _before_ Lady Westfall decided she couldn't stand the sight of me anymore and forced me to choose between the royal guard and the front lines." 

Chaol stared up at the statue of the Great Goddess. 

"All I have is my integrity," he continued. "It's the only thing that stands between me and utter ruin." 

"It's done more for you than that," Dorian said. "It's made you my personal bodyguard. But for me, integrity isn't a safeguard; it's a guaranteed way to join my mother in the afterlife." 

Dorian glanced at the statue, and then back to Chaol. 

"If I did allow myself to gain a reputation as a man of integrity...and that reputation led to my being sentenced for death...if my father ended up ordering you to kill me, would you obey, Chaol?" he asked. 

Chaol's face went pale. 

"Y-Your Highness, I-" 

"If my father ordered you to cut my head off with your sword, would you do it, Chaol?" Dorian asked, staring unflinchingly into Chaol's bronze eyes.

Chaol looked like he might be sick. 

"No, Your Highness, I could never-I could never do that." 

Dorian smiled and turned his attention back on to the statue. 

"So you would rebel, then, and be branded a traitor. I envy you, Chaol, the simplicity of answers your integrity blesses you with." 

Chaol muttered something Dorian couldn't hear under his breath, but before Dorian could ask him to repeat it, who should enter the chapel but the woman Dorian tried so hard not to resent, but nevertheless resented anyway: Arabella Trelliser.

"Hello, Lady Trelliser," Dorian said icily. "Have you come to join me in prayer?"

You have always been so oddly cold with me, Dorian," Arabella mused. "I try and try to win your approval, yet no matter what I can never seem to get you to like me. Great Goddess, _Hollin_ was easier to win over than you, and that boy delights in nothing but hunting and military games." 

Dorian glanced at Arabella's plunging neckline and scowled. 

"Maybe if you hadn't been warming my father's bed while my mother still drew breath, Lady Trelliser, I'd like you more." 

Arabella rolled her eyes. 

"Look, I know I'll never replace your _saintly mother_, boy, and I don't intend to-" 

"_Good_," Dorian snapped. "Because my mother, Queen Georgiana, gods rest her soul, was a good, pious woman who worked tirelessly for the benefit of all those around her while she lived. You could never hope to be _half_ the woman she was-or queen, for that matter." 

Arabella sighed.

"Look, I didn't come here to be insulted, Dorian. I just came to tell you that your father wishes to see you." 

"Tell him I'll be right with him." 

"Fine." 

With that, Arabella turned on her heel and left the chapel. Dorian hastily finished his prayer, stood up, turned, and began to make his way towards the throne room. As he did, he began surreptitiously unbuttoning his shirt so that it revealed his chest. 

"Why the two-florin romance novel look?" Chaol asked as Dorian shifted his attention away from his clothes and began mussing his hair.

"Because," Dorian replied. "I want him to think that I've just come from Lady Gordaina's suite." 

Chaol groaned.

"I was honestly hoping that could wait until tomorrow." 

"What, resuming my guise as the sex-obsessed fool? No, the sooner my father learns of my new mistress, the better. No doubt ideas have already grown in his head about my plans to overthrow him. Whether they're his own, or Duke Perrington's, matters not." 

"Can you not sleep around and plot against him?"

"Not if my every waking thought is consumed by my lover's perky breasts, as I hope my father believes," Dorian added. 

They soon entered the throne room, where King Dorian Havilliard I sat imposingly on his glass throne, surveying the empty room before him. Chaol immediately knelt before his king, whereas Dorian strolled in lazily, affecting a yawn. 

"Gods above, I hope this doesn't take too long," Dorian drawled, glancing at his father, whose mouth was slightly ajar. "Lilian is very eager and has almost _no_ patience." 

"_Lilian_?" the king asked, blinking in surprise. "You...haven't come from the chapel?" 

"_Heavens_ no," Dorian replied. "Too many stuffy old priests there. Not enough beautiful women." 

"Where...where did you _meet_ this Lilian? Weren't you in Endovier with Perrington?" 

"Yes, but I sent Chaol to pick up Lilian and bring her to court," Dorian said breezily. "I met Lilian a while ago, when I ran off to Meah in that little hissy fit of mine."

The king's eyes narrowed. 

"Yes, when you threatened to tell the whole court that your cousin Roland was my illegitimate lovechild," he said.

Dorian rolled his eyes. 

"I was such an idiot back then," he said. "Of course Roland looks nothing like you, I see it now."

"I see," the king murmured. "So...how, exactly, did you meet this Lilian?" 

Shit. Dorian hadn't thought that far ahead yet. 

"Well," Dorian began, "Roland took me out on the town to help clear my thoughts, which I was having none of, of course, until I saw her walking out of her a shop." 

Dorian plastered the grin of the lecherous cad on his face. 

"Well, I knew then and there that I had to have her. So I walked up to her, introduced myself, asked her her name. She was flattered by my attention, said she was from Fenharrow, that her rich important father had sent her to Meah to 'clean up her act', but that she wasn't particularly interested in that. She was more interested in me, she said. So I invited her up to my quarters at Roland's estate, and then, well-I forgot all about Roland after what we did next." 

Dorian let out a sigh of appreciation. 

"She saved me that night, she did. I'd almost forgotten-" 

"Enough," the king snapped. "I get the picture. Tell me-has your Champion arrived?" 

Dorian schooled his features into a mask of boredom.

"Oh, yes" he said dismissively. "She's in the barracks with the other criminals, probably slaughtering her way through them as we speak." 

"I'm honestly surprised you agreed to sponsor someone," the king mused. "Let alone someone as notorious as Miss Sardothien. What with your praying and crying over your mother, I'd thought you'd lost all appetite of court life." 

Dammit. A statement which was undoubtedly code for I thought you were plotting against me.

Dorian shrugged.

"Well, Perrington insulted my lovely Lillian," he said blithely, "I thought, how better to get back at him then make sure his Champion loses?" 

The king sighed. 

"I...see," he said. "You may go now, Dorian. Send your mistress my regards." 


	4. First Dinner

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Aelin meets the king and plots out her game plan. Nehemia becomes suspicious of Aelin. The competition officially starts.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chaol is one hundred percent gay in this, with nary a hint of heterosexuality. This is also a homophobic setting, so Chaol and Dorian naturally have some internalized homophobia.  
Hollin is also Dorian's twin in this, albeit the younger twin. Myth979 pointed out on tumblr that since Hollin is a child, having him be a hate sink doesn't really work since he doesn't act spoiled enough on-screen to justify it. So I decided to age him up and make him more of a Joffrey-esque character.  
And yeah, Nehemia is suspicious of the sudden mistress.

"You look lovely, ma'am," Dorian said as he stared at Celaena. 

_Indeed_, Chaol thought, _she does_. Phillipa Spindlehead had somehow taken a scrawny, filthy criminal and transformed her into a fashionable lady of the court. 

Celaena's golden locks had been curled and piled high on her head, with two gentle curls framing her face. Light blue eyeshadow had been applied to her eyes, drawing attention to their turquoise-and-gold color. Rouge had been applied to her lips and cheeks, giving Celaena the appearance of a healthy complexion. Judging by the ample bosom peeking out of her bodice, her figure had clearly been padded out to give the illusion of an actual bustline and to hide the effects of starvation. The gown which clothed said figure was a fashionable pale blue, and it sat over delicate cream-colored petticoats which matched the stomacher perfectly. Completing the look were white kid gloves and a beautiful silver choker around her throat. 

"Thank you, Your Highness," Celaena replied sweetly, taking Dorian's hand as she slowly walked out into the corridor with him. 

"Please," Dorian said smoothly, would seem sincere, but which Chaol knew was nonsense, "Call me Dorian." 

With that, the fake couple began walking to the throne room, with Chaol steadily walking behind them, hand on his sword and alert for trouble.

"Now, to get our stories straight," Dorian said to her. "We met in Meah, after I ran off there in a hissy fit after my mother died. My cousin Roland had taken me on the town, and you were coming out of a shop when I saw you. You're a naughty girl from Fenharrow, and you were sent to Meah by your father, Lord Gordaina, to clean up your act. But you didn't particularly want to, so I instead took you up to my quarters, where we..._made love_." 

Celaena chuckled. 

"What a quaint way of phrasing that." 

Chaol stiffened. 

"My lord may play the cad in public, but I assure you, miss, that truthfully he is an honorable gentleman through and through," he spat. "Even if he does refuse to show it." 

"Right," Dorian said, laughing nervously. "Now, I've also led my father to believe that you are...extremely eager when it comes to lovemaking."

Celaena half smiled. 

"So I'm a lusty little lady, am I?" 

Dorian grimaced. 

"I may have portrayed you that way, yes. I apologize for any offense I caused you." 

"Oh, it's fine," Celaena said with a laugh. "At least you didn't make me out to be a gold digger." 

Just about they arrived at the throne room, where the court had gathered to eat dinner. 

"Alright, showtime, Lady Gordaina. " Dorian whispered to Celaena as the announcer called out his name and Celaena's alias. 

With that, Dorian withdrew his hand and put an arm around Celaena's waist. Chaol desperately tried to fight the burning jealousy inside as he walked like that all the way up to the dais.

_She's only a_ fake _mistress_, Chaol reminded himself. _Dorian isn't even_ touching _her in reality, let alone taking her to bed._

And besides, Dorian clearly was nothing like Chaol. Not only had Chaol seen Dorian kiss women and genuinely enjoy it, the boy was simply too pious, too good to be attracted to men like Chaol was. 

Yet, as Celaena planted liberal kisses on Dorian's throat and cheeks while he introduced her to his father, Chaol could not help but hate her. 

_You don't deserve him_, Chaol thought as Celaena leaned on Dorian while they walked up to their seats. _Granted, I may not deserve him either, but you deserve him even less. I might be a man, but I at least care about what in his best interests. You're just a heartless mercenary out for the king's gold. _

* * *

* * *

In between playing the role of adoring mistress and eating, Aelin had observed some key facts about her targets. 

The first was that Dorian did not at all like his soon-to-be stepmother, the Lady Arabella Trelliser. Not that Aelin blamed him; the auburn-haired woman sitting beside the king, from the little Aelin had seen of her, appeared to be the absolute worst kind of social-climbing hussy. The kind that absolutely didn't mind sleeping with married men to attain their goals, who would happily stroke the egos of the men around her and mold herself into whatever she thought their ideal woman was.

Aelin was honestly surprised the king had fallen for Lady Trelliser's blatant gold-digging. Then again, maybe he hadn't. Maybe this whole affair with her was an act, to hide something more sinister. Or maybe he was genuinely attracted to the scheming, status-seeking type of women. 

The second was that Hollin, Dorian's twin brother, was clearly the one the king favored. This was no doubt because Hollin had the same exact sadistic temperament the king did. The young man apparently enjoyed military exercises a great deal, but was currently bored and had spent a great deal of the evening begging his father to give him a squadron so that he could "watch those rebels bleed out as I gut them with my sword".

"He's been like that since he was a child," Dorian informed her with a sigh. "Once he strangled my cousin's pet gerbil just to watch the life drain from its eyes." 

And the third, final, most crucial fact was this: that the King and Lady Trelliser were getting married. 

It had only been nine months since Queen Georgiana died, and the king was already setting his sights on a new wife. That was not a good look. Especially when you considered how beloved Queen Georgiana had been by the people for her piety and charity. Even _Aelin_ had never been able to hate her, due to the late queen having been a patron of the arts. And that was saying something. 

Just then, a serving woman who had come to take away their plates accidentally spilled some food on Lady Trelliser's turquoise velvet gown.

"Ah! Look what you've done, you half-wit!" Lady Trelliser cried.

"I...I'm sorry, my lady-"

"Do you realize how much this cost?" Lady Trelliser snapped. "More than the value of your pathetic little life, that's for sure." 

Lady Trelliser glanced at the king and said, 

"I'm going to go change." 

"Alright," the king replied. "I'll see you later, my love." 

Lady Trelliser stood and glared at the servant. 

"When I'm queen," she said. "The first thing I will do is fire you." 

With that, Lady Trelliser gathered her skirts and exited the throne room. 

So...Lady Trelliser was not only a scheming harlot, she also liked to abuse the common folk. What a charming replacement for Georgiana the king had picked out, truly. She would _not_ be a popular queen. 

And the king, by all accounts, was _infatuated_ with her. He'd been feeding her food from his plate all evening and calling her cutesy pet names. If he continued to be so while Arabella was queen, the court might very well decide that the king had lost his mind. 

According to Dorian, the court had already begun to believe Dorian was plotting against the king. If this continued, some of them might want to get in on said plot. Chaol, at the very least, clearly believed Dorian was a stand-up guy. Aelin doubted Chaol was the only person who felt that way about him. 

And if Dorian's gambit failed, if the court did not buy this lady-killer act and instead assessed him more shrewdly...and if that assessment, compared to his father, was extremely favorable...

_The sun may very well have set on King Dorian and his vile reign, _she realized._ At this point I might be little more than Hellas's instrument upon him. _

Indeed, killing the king before the consequences of his dalliance with Lady Trelliser arrived might very well be a mercy. And Aelin was not here to give him that. 

No, he would suffer before he died, as Aelin had suffered. He would lose everything, as she had when he murdered her family. First his crown, then his family. And then, his life. 

It would be nothing more than he deserved. 

* * *

* * *

This new mistress of the Crown Princess...this Lilian Gordaina...she was not what she seemed. 

Oh, she played the role of shallow, ditzy noblewoman quite well enough-kissing the prince liberally on the neck and cheek, giggling as she let Prince Dorian fondle her, saying nothing of substance- but Nehemia had seen her watching the royal family, seen her carefully observing that glorious dysfunction not with shock or embarrassment, but rather, appearing to be mentally taking notes. 

Who was she? And what did she want? What did she stand to gain? Did she want to become the next Lady Trelliser? No-she seemed disgusted by the woman, just as much so as Dorian was, even. 

If her ambitions were not of the queenly sort, then what? Well, she was from Fenharrow-perhaps she was a spy of some sort, trying to get in their good graces so that she could pass along secrets. 

Or perhaps she was in on whatever Dorian was plotting. Because Nehemia did not for a second buy this happy, carefree lady-killer act Dorian was putting on. Because ever since the death of Queen Georgiana, Dorian had apparently been quite glum and pious. A trend which had only continued after he returned from Meah two months ago. If Dorian had really met her in Meah, then his mood should have changed when he returned, as opposed to continuing to be miserable until today. 

No, Dorian was doing this to throw off suspicion, and for some of the court, it might very well work. It was certainly working on the king, oddly enough. But the one vital principle of Nehemia's life was this: _make sure everyone underestimates you, but at the same time, underestimate no one_. 

And Nehemia certainly did not underestimate Dorian. 

Whatever this new mistress was, she was an unknown variable, and Nehemia disliked unknown variables. She didn't know where she stood with them, or where the court stood in relation to them. 

This much was certain: Nehemia needed to find out as much as she could about this Lady Lilian Gordaina. 


	5. Teatime Misadventures

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The tournament is postponed. Nehemia and Aelin have tea together; Aelin realizes that she is gay for Nehemia. Dorian covers for Aelin; Asterin Blackbeak looks forward to killing people.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Countess Kaltain is not an original character, she's a heavy reworking of Kaltain Rompier.

"So," Aelin asked as she and Chaol walked towards the barracks, where the other Champions awaited them for the first fight of the tournament. "You mentioned that I was one of the only champions with a royal sponsor-what do you mean by that?" 

"Well," Chaol began nervously, "For...reasons beyond my understanding, the tournament is free to all members of the public who want to watch. Therefore, the true purpose of the tournament is not common knowledge. Most of the competitors believe themselves to be competing solely for a royal pardon from the king. "

The king...was having prisoners fight to the death...for _just their freedom_? And using the whole thing as _public entertainment_? 

"And thus, most of them are not seriously expected to win," Chaol continued. "They are...merely bodies to be eliminated, so to speak. The ones actually expected to win, well-those are the ones with sponsors from the royal family." 

And he wasn't even planning on _giving_ it to them, to boot. He was just using them as tools to make his...twisted little circus more entertaining. 

"The Champions with sponsors are as follows," Chaol informed her. "Cain, a former bandit from the White Fang Mountains, who is sponsored by Prince Hollin. Philip Corden, a smuggler from Melisande-his sponsor is Lady Trelliser. Red James, a notorious underground boxing star and debtor. His sponsor is Lord Roland of Meah, the king's nephew. Duke Perrington, the king's cousin by marriage, is sponsoring a pirate called One-Eyed Sam. And then, lastly, there's you." 

Aelin raised an eyebrow. 

"Am I the only woman in this competition?" she asked. 

Chaol shook his head. 

"Technically, no," he replied. "There are two other women, but neither of them have sponsors or so much as a prayer. One is a drunk debtor by the name of Mia Taylor, and the other is a pick-pocket by the name of Sara, who happens to be stricken with the early stages of the consumption. So, for practical purposes, you might as well be the only woman in this competition." 

Consumption? They'd...permitted a girl with _consumption_ to compete in the tournament? Was there no low the king _wouldn't_ sink to? 

Of course, Aelin already knew that the answer to that was yes. She just didn't like seeing the proof of it. 

They arrived at the barracks, only to be stopped by the guards. 

"Turn and take your champion back to the palace," the guard told Chaol. "Today's fights have been postponed." 

"_What_?" Chaol gasped. "Why?" 

"Well...two of the competitors were murdered last night," the guard explained. "Their throats were slit while they were sleeping. Don't worry- it shouldn't take long to find the culprit-the barracks was locked last night, so the culprit has to be one of the competitors. We should probably be able to start the tournament by tomorrow." 

_Meaning, we'll have picked a scapegoat by then_, Aelin mused to herself. No proper investigation lasts just one day. 

Chaol sighed, thanked the guard, and headed back towards the palace, Aelin following, disappointed in the missed opportunity to pilfer real weapons. She had, of course, been able to pocket a sharp enough knife from the breakfast table, but she'd prefer to slaughter the king with something more substantial. 

* * *

* * *

"Oh, hello, Kaltain," Nehemia said with false sweetness as the countess approached. "What are _you_ doing here?"

"I should ask you the same, Your Highness," Countess Kaltain replied. "Why on earth are you standing outside the apartments of Prince Dorian's mistress?" 

"Why? Because it never hurts to ingratiate yourself to those in power," Nehemia answered. "As you yourself would know." 

"What I did with the Eyllwe assassins was for the good of us all, Nehemia," Kaltain said. "Whether you wish to see that or not."

"Was it really?" Nehemia snapped. "Or did you just want to get back at Lord Rompier for dumping you?" 

Kaltain gasped. 

"How _dare_ you-" 

She would have said more, had Lady Lilian Gordaina herself not arrived, and in a most peculiar costume, too: she wore a black tunic and trousers, alongside sturdy leather boots, and her golden hair was braided back tightly, with all her hair swept away from her face. It was an outfit clearly meant for serious business, business a frivolous young woman like Lady Gordaina couldn't possibly have. 

The more Nehemia saw the crown prince's mistress, the more of a puzzle she became. 

"What are you doing outside my apartment?" Lady Lilian asked, staring at Nehemia in what appeared to be an utterly enraptured expression. 

"Uh..." Countess Kaltain faltered, utterly unable to explain her reasons, whatever they were.

"I came to invite you to tea," Nehemia told Lilian. "I have so few friends in the capital, you see, so I am aching for company." 

"I...yes," Lilian replied, still utterly fixated on Nehemia. "Absolutely." 

"Good," Nehemia replied with a smile. "Right away, then." 

_What was with that admiring expression?_ Nehemia asked herself as she lead Lady Lilian to her apartments. Was Lilian trying to cozy up to her? If, so why? Nehemia was the king's glorified hostage; she had no clout within Adarlan that Lilian could possibly hope to exploit. 

Unless...Dorian wished to form an alliance with Nehemia. That might explain it. Yes. Dorian wanted to make good with Nehemia, so he had instructed his mistress to play nice in the hopes that Nehemia would consider partnering with him. 

But why? What was Dorian planning that he needed her help with? 

* * *

* * *

"So...the tournament is postponed, eh?" Dorian mused as he continued reading his book. It was the scholar William Taylor's treatise on the syncretism between the goddess Deanna and the faerie queen Maeve's sister Mab, and the implications that had for the worship of Deanna. Naturally, it was quite the fascinating read, although Dorian could not help but disagree with some of Taylor's conclusions. 

"Yes," Chaol replied, standing at attention, "The tournament will not start until tomorrow." 

Dorian smiled and shut his book. 

"Alright then," he said as he sat up off his bed. "Summon Celaena to my quarters. My father has made the mistake of inviting me to a council meeting in half an hour, and I want us to arrive there late, sufficiently disheveled and feigning drunkenness." 

Chaol sighed and shook his head. 

"I am afraid I cannot do that, Your Highness," he said. "Because Celaenna is currently taking tea with Her Highness the Princess Nehemia Ytger." 

Dorian's jaw dropped in horror. 

"What? She's what?" he cried, leaping to his feet immediately. "No, no-tell her to come back immediately!" 

Chaol's brow furrowed in confusion. 

"Your Highness, I do not understand-surely it's good for her to makes friends with the ladies of the court, right?" 

"Not _that_ kind of friends!" Dorian exclaimed, clutching his temples nervously. "Princess Nehemia isn't just some vapid noblewoman, Chaol! Not only is she a glorified hostage to keep the King of Eyllwe in line, she's likely secretly plotting to take down my father! Or, at the very least, freeing her country from his rule! She isn't taking tea with Celaena because of her _amazing personality_-she's doing it because she wants to cozy up to _me! _She wants _my_ help in whatever little plan she's got, and if this gets out to the rest of the court-" 

Dorian glanced around his room, and then hastily rushed over to his mirror, where he quickly messed up his hair. When it looked sufficiently unkempt, he quickly unbuttoned his waistcoat and shirt, then opened a decanter of wine on his nightstand, and hastily splashed some on his neck and clothes. 

"What...are you doing?" Chaol asked, utterly perplexed by Dorian's actions. 

"The only thing I can do," Dorian replied, as he poured himself a glass of wine. "I'm going to proposition Nehemia." 

Chaol's eyes widened in horror. 

"Your Highness!" he gasped. "Miscegenation is illegal!" 

"It's not supposed to _work_, Chaol," Dorian grumbled. "In fact, it's supposed to do the opposite: repulse her to the point where she believes that I am nothing more than a sex-obsessed fool with no secret plans, no desire to ally with her, and most importantly, somebody who would be more of a liability than an ally in the first place." 

Dorian grabbed his wine glass, and began making his way over to Nehemia's apartments to save his reputation, and hopefully, his life. 

* * *

* * *

The goddess in human form across from Aelin was merciless in grilling her for details about her past, but Aelin wasn't worried-she thought she was doing a pretty good job of appearing shallow, giggly, and witless. Partially through doggedly sticking to the cover story Dorian had given her, and partially because whenever Aelin so much as looked at Nehemia, she felt her intelligence steadily drop and her heart melt into a pile of mush.

And the result of that was that every word that popped out Aelin's mouth naturally made her sound like a fool. And Aelin had no idea why. 

It wasn't that she was unfamiliar with the concept of homosexuality- her great-uncle, King Orlon, had had a male lover by the name of, Lord Weylan Darrow, and nobody in Terrasen had batted an eye. It had simply never occurred to Aelin that she could have homosexual feelings, too. Granted, she'd never been much attracted to men, but she didn't have much friendly contact with other women, either. 

More to the point, she'd assumed that any and all feelings of love in general had been extinguished in her, first by the King of Adarlan, and then by Arobynn. That her soul was too hollow and dark a place for love. But apparently...she was wrong.

Because as Nehemia talked, Aelin's impulses became less and less about maintaining about her cover, and more about pleasing Nehemia, staring into Nehemia's beautiful eyes, at her long, thick eyelashes, at the marvelous golden paint on her eyelids, at her full lips, at...everything that was Nehemia, period. 

* * *

* * *

Nehemia had initially assumed that Lady Gordaina's admiration was fake, that it was merely a pretext for an invitation to a political alliance. But that was a mistake. This...this starry-eyed staring, the goofy smile, the way Lilian leaned forward, half resting her head on the table...this was not fake. It was not mere flattery with a political aim, it was...genuine. Utterly genuine, and worse, far deeper than mere friendly admiration. 

In fact, Nehemia would bet her bottom florin that Lilian Gordaina was infatuated with her. Gods above her, the girl was likely composing a sappy love poem in her head as they spoke!

Not only that, but from what Nehemia had gathered about the woman, her entire story was fake. There was not a single shred of truth to Lady Gordaina's story whatsoever. 

Not because Lilian had contradicted Prince Dorian; oh no, not at all. In fact, she'd stuck to the prince's story with an impressive rigor. Lilian had testified yes, she indeed did originate from Fenharrow, that her father was indeed a Lord of Fenharrow, that she was a naughty girl and her father had sent her to Meah to clean up her act. She had indeed been against reforming, and had met Dorian on a shopping trip, slept with him the same day, and thus started her career as his mistress. 

Yet despite that, Lilian had behaved nothing like the vapid, spoiled daughter of a Fenharrow lord the entire time she'd been. Because a vapid, spoiled Fenharrow aristocrat would not be able to speak Eyllwe, let alone offer to speak it to someone who supposedly had trouble with the common tongue, as Nehemia was pretending to. And if this aristocrat had supposedly somehow been tutored in it Fenharrow, her command of Eyllwe should be formal and stilted, not so colloquial like a commoner's, as Lilian's command actually was. 

Not to mention, Lilian's command of the common tongue was _way_ too good for someone from Fenharrow, and she did not have the slightest _hint_ of a Fenharrow accent whatsoever. 

In short, while Nehemia still had no idea who Lilian really was, she knew this: Lady Lilian Gordaina was not from Fenharrow, and Lady Gordaina was probably not her real name. 

Before Nehemia could ask any clarifying questions to Lilian, though, who should burst in but Prince Dorian himself? 

The Crown Prince was disheveled, his dark hair a mess, his shirt half-open to reveal his chest, and his clothes wet, and there was a strong smell of alcohol on him. He stared at the two ladies with sapphire-blue eyes as though in a drunken stupor. 

"Nehem-ya!" Dorian slurred, waving his wine glass for a bit, although, Nehemia observed, spilling not so much as a drop of wine. "You look...ravishing!" 

Now this...was a bizarre situation. The Crown Prince had apparently been drinking, but...alone. With no companions, no equally rowdy lord's sons or knights or so much as a soldier. Not even his bodyguard was with him. And he definitely hadn't arrived with any women, as a supposed womanizer like himself naturally would. While this behavior might be more typical of an older drunk, Prince Dorian was only nineteen. Young people rarely imbibed heavily when not in a social setting. 

"Thank...you," Nehemia replied awkwardly, unsure of what was happening. 

The prince's sudden arrival appeared to snap Lilian out of her love-induced, for suddenly she was looking around the room in a panic, as if she was finally realizing the implications of taking tea with the princess of a country in open revolt. 

Prince Dorian absent-mindedly set his glass down on a stand behind him-an action which clued Nehemia into the real purpose of this visit. If Dorian was truly so drunk as to assume that barging into a woman's apartments half-undressed and stinking of wine was a good idea, he would not have the presence of mind to put his drink down so carefully. No, Dorian was clearly only pretending to be drunk. 

And why? Because he, too had realized what his mistress taking tea with Nehemia implied. And that he had never intended to send that message at all. That whatever his plans were, they required Nehemia to believe he was an idiot like the rest of the court. And that thus, Dorian was putting on this little show to convince her that he was nothing more than an idiot hedonist. 

And his next words would only confirm this suspicion: 

"Why don't you follow me up to my room where we can make love?" Dorian asked. 

Because drunk, lecherous men never phrased the act of sex in such a delicate, refined manner. Nothing they did while drunk was refined or delicate. Not only was Nehemia absolutely sure now that Dorian was completely sober, now she honestly doubted that he'd ever sex in his life. 

Well, if he was going to insult her intelligence with such a display, it was only fitting that Nehemia act accordingly. 

"But Your Highness," Nehemia gasped, fluttering her eyelashes as she did, "I am as yet unmarried-do you care so little for my honor that you would sully it at whim?"

Nehemia did not, of course, attach her honor solely to her virginity, and neither did anyone in Eyllwe. Rather, she attached it to things like her deeds and words, like sensible people. 

Yet this plea appeared to take Prince Dorian utterly aback, far more so than could be reasonably expected for a supposed libertine like the Crown Prince.

"Of-of course not, my lady," he stammered, completely dropping the drunk act as he staggered back in surprise. "C-come, Lilian. Let us go to my chambers." 

With that, he escorted Lilian out of Nehemia's apartment, not even trying to appear drunk as he did. 

Well...that had been...enlightening. So...the prince's libertine ways were just an _act_. He took..._offense_ at the accusation that he would "sully a woman's honor". An act which, of course, was quite necessary for the libertine lifestyle!

By the gods, how he had managed to fool the entire court for _so long_? 

* * *

* * *

Dorian sighed in relief as he walked away from Nehemia's apartments. She'd...bought it! She'd actually bought it! 

The sheer horror in her eyes when he'd suggested taking her to bed-there was no way she'd believe he could be an ally now! No doubt, she'd be bad-mouthing him whenever she had the opportunity to-which, hopefully, would be enough to quash any rumors about them plotting together. 

Of course, this would set back his plan to arrange a marriage with her to end the revolt. There was no way she could possibly agree to marry him now, even if Dorian did do away with the miscegenation laws so he could make it happen. While said plan was, of course, not expected to come to fruition until decades later, when Dorian's father was dead and buried-he would still would have preferred to be able to make use of it. 

But he'd have to survive if he wanted to do that-and he couldn't very well do that if his father believed he was plotting against him. 

* * *

* * *

The world was already crumbling around the Havilliards, and Aelin had not so much as struck a blow. She'd only barely pocketed and hidden knives from the dining room. 

Not to mention, it was not at all crumbling in the way Aelin wanted it to. Thanks to her mistake, Dorian had had to cover for her by propositioning Nehemia. Who was _black_ where he was white. Meaning, Dorian would be likely be executed by the king for miscegenation if this got out. 

Aelin hadn't known Dorian for very long, but she did know that he wasn't nearly as horrible as his father. So much so she'd almost debated letting him live to rule Adarlan after everyone else died. She certainly didn't think he deserved to be the first casualty of her plan. 

No, that would be King Dorian I's throne. And speaking of that...if Princess Nehemia really was such a threat to it that allying with a prince's mistress was dangerous...then perhaps it would be a good idea to clue the princess into her real plan. 

With that, Aelin began writing a note to be delivered to Nehemia. 

* * *

* * *

Pretending to be a consumption-riddled nobody had to be the hardest thing Asterin Blackbeak had ever done. But her people were counting on her-Manon, the Matron, the entire Blackbeak coven-all the Ironteeth covens-they needed her. Asterin had to win this tournament, or else they would continue to be the king's slaves for the rest of their lives. Which, without magic, in the case of the Matrons, wouldn't be very long. 

And the others? Well, they'd live with those collars around their necks for quite a while, or at least until the monsters inside them managed to kill them. 

"There's a tournament," Manon had confessed to Asterin in her last moments of lucidity, gripping her second's hand tightly, " I heard Perrington talk about it. They're holding it in Rifthold-everyone's competing for the position of royal assassin. If you can win that tournament, worm your way into the court-you can give us our freedom back."

And that was Asterin's plan. Win the tournament, become part of the king's inner circle, learn the secret to cutting off the Wyrdstone collars. But unfortunately, it was a plan with several snags. One, there were _thirty_ competitors. Two, she didn't have a sponsor. Granted, there were only five with sponsors, but those five had a huge advantage compared to everyone else. Great Three-Headed Goddess, one of the sponsored ones, an assassin named Celaena or something like, didn't even have to live in the barracks with the rest of the lowlifes! 

This much was clear-Asterin needed to get rid of the other competitors, and fast. She also needed to attract the attention of one of the sponsors. 

So she'd slit the throats of a couple of the others with her iron nails last night. Neither of them had had a chance in the competition anyway; one of them was suffering from opium withdrawal and the other was a debtor who'd clearly never picked up a weapon in his life. They were cluttering up space.

And fortunately, she hadn't been caught-instead, the guards had chosen to pin the blame on some other criminal-and one who'd actually looked to be a threat, too!

Asterin went to bed with a smile on her face. Yes, her shenanigans had delayed the fights, but now they were starting with three less competitors than before! It had been worth it. 

And tomorrow, there would be a lot less. 


	6. First Blood

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Nehemia and Aelin have a secret meeting and agree to a tentative alliance. Nehemia is suspicious; Aelin is determined not to reveal her full identity to Nehemia. 
> 
> Aelin wins her first match in the tournament; Lady Trelliser and the Duchess Perrington get into an argument.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Just because Aelin is in love with Nehemia doesn't mean she completely trusts her. And Nehemia 100% doesn't trust Aelin. Also, yeah, the idea of Aelin have the resources to live in luxury after paying her debt to Arobynn is quite absurd to me, so she doesn't.
> 
> And yeah, as much as I love writing about everyone's secret plots tripping all over each other, I couldn't delay the tournament. And I definitely couldn't delay Aelin fighting in said tournament. 
> 
> And so yeah. Nehemia is Iago-ing her way into getting the king killed.

Nehemia removed her hood as she walked to up to Aelin and said: 

"Well, I'm here. It's midnight. In the gardens. Now, tell me: are you just stringing me along, or do you have actual proof that Aelin Galathynius really exists?" 

Aelin gulped. She had not honestly thought that Nehemia would care so much about a "dead" princess when she'd informed Nehemia in her note that said "dead" princess was really alive. She'd honestly thought Nehemia would have more practical concerns on her mind. Like, say, plotting a revolution. 

Now, how did Aelin get out of this? The knowledge of her true identity was her only advantage. If she told Nehemia the whole truth-and nothing but the truth-Nehemia might very well just sacrifice Aelin to gain the king's trust, and thus power. 

Best to only give her breadcrumbs. 

Aelin reached into her tunic and lifted the chain she kept under there over her head. Once the necklace was off, she showed the ring on it to Nehemia.

"The Galathynius signet ring," Aelin said, allowing Nehemia to examine the crest that was etched onto it. "She gave it to me just before I was to infiltrate the palace. Is that proof enough for you?" 

Nehemia shook her head. 

"I'll admit," she said, "It looks quite real. And maybe it is. But you could just as easily have stolen it off a corpse. All this proves is that you were in contact with _a_ Galathynius. This says nothing about whether she's actually alive."

Damn it. Of course a princess from a country in open revolt wouldn't trust her based on a _ring_. Rings were too easily forged. 

Aelin sighed. 

"My mistress anticipated this," she said, thinking quickly. "Come, then. I shall take you to our hideout." 

*** 

They reached Aelin's old apartment fairly easily, with Nehemia being surprisingly more adept at stealth than Aelin had thought. And better, the landlord hadn't rented it out to someone else; apparently, he hadn't even noticed Aelin had disappeared. Thus, when Aelin opened the door, everything inside was still intact. 

"_This_ is your hideout?" Nehemia said, eyeing the one-room apartment rather suspiciously. It indeed did not look very suitable for a rebel hideout: having only one bed, one shoddily crafted wooden table, a fireplace to cook and warm the building, and only one chest of belongings, it had nothing close to the resources necessary for hiding a rebel organization. 

"One of many," Aelin said quickly. "Our organization is...decentralized." 

Aelin went over to her chest and rifled through them until she found a letter Arobynn had sent her, begging her to come back, which for some reason she hadn't immediately used as kindling.

It read: 

_Aelin, _

_ Yes, I'm using your real name here. I don't have time to play games anymore. You need to come back. Yes, you may have paid your debt, but you still need me. Do you think being "Dianna Brackyn" will protect you forever? That the king won't eventually find you? You have nothing, Aelin, nothing. _

_ I can protect you from him. From your parents' murderer. Please, come back. _

_ Your loving guardian, _

_ Arobynn Hamel_

Two years ago, it had merely been an annoying, transparent attempt to bring her back into the fold. But now...it was the perfect thing to convince this princess that Aelin was real. And, more importantly, was a different person than Lilian Gordaina, and had resources Nehemia could use. 

"This is a missive from a former ally of ours, Arobynn Hamel," Aelin said as she handed the letter to Nehemia. "She rejected his plea, of course. Her Highness has no need of him anymore." 

Nehemia read over the letter carefully, examining every detail carefully. 

"So...she does exist, then," Nehemia mused. "But why on earth would she agree to align herself with Arobynn Hamel?" 

"He...sheltered her when no one else would," Aelin explained. "But it came at a price." 

Nehemia raised an eyebrow. 

"I see," she said. "Now answer me this: how does a noblewoman from Fenharrow know so much about Aelin Galathynius to begin with?" 

Aelin smiled. 

"Oh, come now," she said, "You must have figured out by now that I'm not _really_ from Fenharrow." 

Nehemia smirked. 

"But of course," she replied. "You have no accent. Now, tell me, what does your precious Aelin want?" 

"To form an alliance with you, of course," Aelin replied truthfully. "You and Her Highness both want the same thing: freedom for both our respective countries." 

"Our?" Nehemia asked. 

"Yes," Aelin replied. "I am about as native to Adarlan as you are, Your Highness." 

"So you're from...Terrasen, then?" Nehemia concluded, staring at Aelin's pale skin. 

"Indeed," Aelin told her. "And I think-well, _Her Highness_ thinks-that we could achieve our goals much more quickly if we joined forces. What do you say to that?" 

* * *

* * *

What _did_ Nehemia say? This was nothing like anything Nehemia could possibly have guessed. 

Lilian Gordaina, apparently, was a _spy_ for Aelin gods-damned _Galathynius_! Who was..._actually alive_! Some...how.

And what's more, she had managed to seduce Prince Dorian, or at the very least convince him to give her a position as his mistress, while keeping him completely unaware! Because there was no way Dorian would be working with a deposed princess. Unless....

But no. If Aelin's operative, whatever her actual name was, wanted an alliance where Dorian very clearly did not, then the two factions clearly weren't working together. 

It was too good an offer to pass up, of course. If Aelin was alive, and really could deliver contacts as impressive as Arobynn Hamel, King of the Assassins...it would greatly bolster the Eyllwe rebel forces, to say nothing of actual victory. 

But Nehemia knew she wasn't being told the whole story. Like, for starters, where _was_ this Aelin Galathynius? Where was she hiding? Not only that , but if Aelin had the likes of Arobynn Hamel as a contact, why was her faction's secret base in Rifthold look like it could barely support one person? How big was Aelin's little group, really? How many operatives did Aelin have? 

Speaking of her operatives, what was "Lilian's" purpose in the glass castle? Was she merely a spy, or was there something else Aelin wanted her to do? Like, say, assassinate the king? 

Nehemia didn't blame Aelin if that was the goal, but a poorly-timed assassination would wreck havoc on Nehemia's plans even so. Whether it succeeded or failed, it might turn Dorian against the Eyllwe cause, and revitalize the war effort against the rebels in Eyllwe.

Nehemia couldn't risk that. She needed to reign in Aelin's little group before they potentially ruined everything. 

"I accept, of course," Nehemia replied sweetly, holding out her hand for Lilian to shake it. 

* * *

* * *

It was all coming together, Aelin thought as she snuck back into her apartments and climbed into bed. With the Eyllwe rebel forces on her side, the king's throne was ever so much closer to toppling. And then, once he lost Eyllwe, the other nations would be emboldened to rebel against him. Once he was surrounded on all sides by rebellion, she could focus on slitting their throats one by one. 

Of course, there was still the matter of the competition. But if Aelin played her cards right, she might not even _need_ to win. Dealing with the rebellion might very well force the king to call the tournament off. But still, one could never be too careful...

* * *

* * *

The opening fight of the tournament was not glamorous. It was not pretty. In fact, it was the most vile, reprehensible thing Dorian had ever seen. 

But Chaol had insisted. After all, he'd said, Dorian and Celaena were supposed to be playing up the vapid, self-absorbed courtier act, and what better way to do that than to canoodle while watching a blood sport? 

Not that it was all that bloody so far. The competitors in question, a thirteen-year-old boy and a rail-thin opium addict, were not fighting so much as awkwardly swinging their swords around while clumsily dodging each other in what could only be described as a parody of actual fighting. 

This, of course, displeased the crowds, who booed and yelled for blood. 

_It's like a scene from the reign of Erawan,_ Dorian thought to himself. _Blood sport, excess-all that's missing is the Valg._

Celeana fed him a grape, which Dorian ate casually as he watched the young boy somehow manage to kill the opium addict, much to the delight of the crowd. 

* * *

* * *

In just three bouts, already the number of competitors had gone down from twenty-seven to twenty-four. And by the time Asterin was done with whatever opponent they assigned to her, that number would be twenty-three. Things were going very, very well for her. If she continued to narrow down the competition at night, the position of royal assassin would be hers in no time. 

Now she just needed to put up a show of "barely winning" to whatever pathetic mortal lowlife the referee sent to fight her. 

"You! Get out there!" the house trainer barked, shoving Asterin out of the wings and into the arena. Asterin smiled to herself while she hung her head low in the nervous shame of Sara the consumption-riddled pickpocket. She then glanced up, plastering a nervous expression on her face. 

And gasped in horror. For her opponent was not some pathetic lowlife, but none other than one of the sponsored Champions. The enormous mass of muscle masquerading as a man from the White Fang Mountains, also known as Cain, to be exact. 

No matter how much she appeared to struggle against him, the moment she won, her "helpless pickpocket" act would be dust in the wind. Everyone's eyes would be on her, and she would no longer be able to secretly eliminate the competition at night. 

And if she didn't win...well, she'd be _dead_. It was a rotten situtation, no matter how you looked at it. 

Just as Cain readied his axe, however, someone shouted, 

"STOP!! THIS IS MADNESS!" 

Everyone turned to stare at the mysterious objector, and found that it was none other than Prince Dorian. 

* * *

* * *

_Shit_, Dorian realized as all eyes turned towards him. He'd just made a huge mistake. But he couldn't possibly let that sickly young woman fight Hollin's champion. It was just...it was just...unacceptable. Utterly unacceptable. Of course, so was the entire Goddess-damned tournament, but that was beside the point. 

"I mean to say..." Dorian announced, thinking quickly, "That a sickly young girl is no match for the mettle of the great _Cain_! He deserves a _far_ more challenging opponent! Like say, Adarlan's Assassin, for example!" 

Celaena glared at him as the crowd cheered this suggestion. 

The king of Adarlan laughed and slapped Dorian on the back. 

"You're right, my son!" he agreed. "Take the little girl away. Send in Celaena." 

Celaena then clutched her stomach and said in a convincingly pained voice, 

"Excuse me, Your Majesty, Your Highnesses, my lady Trelliser...I...I...have...that time of the month..." 

The king grimaced. 

"Say no more," he said, "You are dismissed, Lady Gordaina." 

Celaena then curtsied and allowed Chaol to escort her out of the royals' private box. 

Phew, Dorian thought as they took Sara the poor consumptive pickpocket out of the ring, Crisis averted. 

* * *

* * *

_Well, it was about_ time _I got my hands bloody_, Aelin thought as she tied the mask over her face. It covered almost everything except her eyes and mouths, making sure that nobody put two and two together and realized Celaena and Lilian were one and the same. 

Of course, she'd rather her knives were sinking themselves into the king as opposed to Cain, but humiliating that soulless creep Hollin in front of an audience by gutting his Champion on the first day wasn't exactly a bad consolation prize. 

Once she was finished changing, she then went out of the changing room and into the weapons room, where a weapons rack holding a plethora of weapons awaited her. Aelin chose two wicked-looking daggers, tied their sheaths onto her thighs, sheathed them, and allowed herself to be escorted into the arena, where the announcer roared: 

"Ladies and gentleman, allow me to present, the one, the only: CELAENA SARDOTHIEN!" 

Aelin confidently walked out into the arena, drew her blades, and stood resting in a fighting position on the balls of her feet. Cain, for his part, held a giant great-ax in his hands. 

"READY...BEGIN!!" the announcer cried. 

Grinning, Cain swung his great-ax towards Aelin. Aelin dodged it effortlessly, and then slashed his left thigh with one of her knives. It was barely more than a nick, unfortunately, and thus Cain had the opportunity to attempt swing his great-ax yet again. Aelin leaped back just in time for the great-ax's blade to land in the sand. 

Cain pried up his great-ax effortlessly, and swung at her once again. Aelin leaped to the side, causing Cain to only hit empty air. 

"Ah!" Cain cried. "Is running away all you're good for, little girl?" 

"I don't know," Aelin taunted back as she dodged yet another swing of his ax. "Is missing _your_ only talent?" 

The crowd cheered, and Cain, frustrated, swung at her yet again. Aelin dodged once more, and so the fight continued, with Cain swinging, Aelin dodging, until at last Aelin found herself backed up against the arena wall.

Cain grinned evilly. 

"Aha! Got you now, little girl!" 

Cain then swung his ax overhead, and Aelin did the only thing she could do: she dropped low onto the ground and planted her daggers in the sand, causing Cain's ax to hit the air where her head had been. 

He then glanced and found Aelin, and his face immediately contorted with rage. 

"You're dead, bitch," he growled. And then Cain made the biggest, and last mistake of his life: he pulled back to make another swing. 

Had Cain simply let his ax drop in a downswing, Aelin would have been history, and the match would have been Cain's. As it was, pulling his ax back gave Aelin the opportunity to retrieve one of her daggers, sit up, and stab Cain in the stomach. 

Cain staggered back, by the sudden impact of the wound causing him to become unsteady. Seeing her advantage, Aelin immediately stabbed his leg, causing Cain to collapse onto his knees. Dizzy and weak from the pain and blood loss, Cain lowered his greatax, and at it was that moment that the match officially became Aelin's. 

Aelin stood up, slashed Cain's throat, and Hollin's great champion fell to the ground, dead. 

The crowd erupted in a thunderous cheer. Aelin, smiling, cleaned her blade, sheathed it, and then retrieved her other dagger and sheathed it as well. 

"And the winner is...CELAENA SARDOTHIEN!" the announcer roared. 

Aelin, elated by the win, and still hopped up on adrenaline, held out her arms and cried out to the crowd: 

"That's right, Rifthold! I am your victor! I am your Champion!"

At this, the crowd burst into even more cheering, yelling out: 

"CEL-AE-NA! CEL-AE-NA!" 

As Aelin basked in the citizens' adulation. 

Eventually, the referee came to escort her back into the chamber to get cleaned up, and Aelin blew a kiss to the crowd, as they continued to chant her fake name well after she was gone. 

* * *

* * *

"Well," Dorian whistled as they entered Dorian's bedroom, "The crowd certainly loved her out there, didn't they?" 

Chaol nodded. Indeed, they had. Far more than that heartless little mercenary deserved. 

"I hope she doesn't get too popular," Dorian murmured as he plopped down on his bed. "After all, I am her sponsor. If she somehow actually does become the people's champion, no amount of mistresses can salvage what _that_ would do to my reputation." 

Chaol raised an eyebrow. All these court intrigues tired him out just thinking about them. 

"If she's such a risk, why sponsor her in the first place?" 

"Because," Dorian sighed, "People who owe their position to you are an asset you can never get enough of. And if the king's royal assassin just so happens to owe _her_ position to me, that's even better."

Chaol's eyes widened.

"I...did not think you had any favors you could possibly want an assassin to give you," he breathed, utterly shocked. 

Dorian rolled his eyes. 

"No, Chaol, not like that. It's much simpler."

"How is it simpler?" Chaol asked.

"Say I earn the king's ire, despite my precautions," Dorian began. "Say it's enough that he sends his royal assassin after me." 

"I...don't follow." Chaol replied. 

"Well, if that royal assassin ends up being _Celaena_," Dorian explained. "Then all _I_ have to do then is remind Celaena that _I_ was her sponsor. And that if _I_ hadn't been her sponsor, _she_ would never have become the king's personal assassin. And then, once she is reminded how much she owes me, I tell her that if she spares my life and helps me escape, I'll consider the debt paid in full." 

"I see..." Chaol gasped. "How...clever of you, Your Highness." 

And indeed, it was very clever. Except for one thing-Celaena was not nearly honorable enough to be concerned with things like _debts_. Chaol held no doubt in his mind that the moment it became convenient for that little minx to screw Dorian over, she would. And she'd do it with a smile on her face. 

Great Goddess above him, what on earth had poor Dorian done to be surrounded by such a pit of vipers? 

* * *

* * *

Duke Perrington did not believe for a second that Dorian wasn't plotting something. Mistress or no mistress, the young man was infinitely more popular than his father-thanks to Georgiana, the church had loved Dorian for his piety since the beginning, the common folk loved his generosity, and of the many plots against the king's life Duke Perrington had stopped, two had been cooked up by out-and-out Prince Dorian supporters. 

Why _wouldn't_ the prince take advantage of all that to make a shot at the throne? His father, after all, had gained his throne in just that way, and with a _far_ more popular king, to boot. And King Dorian I had only been four years older than Dorian was now when he did it. 

So of course Dorian was plotting something. It was only natural. The question was, what? 

Speaking of royalty, who should come storming up to him but Duchess Henrietta Perrington, his wife and cousin to the king. 

"That minx has accused me of theft," she snapped, pointing at none other than Lady Arabella Trelliser. 

Duke Perrington groaned. The king's mistress was enough of a millstone around his neck with her appalling behavior at court; she didn't need to antagonize his wife as well. 

"Of what?" 

"One of those gaudy diamond monstrosities she calls necklaces," Henrietta scoffed. "She has the gall to claim it's because I was envious of it. Envious! Me!" 

* * *

* * *

Nehemia couldn't but smile into her goblet as she watched the Duchess Perrington complain about Lady Trelliser to her husband. So much work finally coming to fruition. 

She had started sowing the seeds of discord by joining Henrietta's embroidery club, where she helped the duchess indulge in a bit of complaining about how ugly the jewelry the king gave his mistress was, too ugly for its expense, a drain on the royal treasury, truly. 

Nehemia followed this up, of course, by taking tea with Lady Trelliser, and saying:

"I was just talking with Duchess Perrington, and she told me how much she admires your taste in jewelry."

"Really?" Lady Trelliser said, clearly flattered by the duchess's supposed envy.

"Yes," Nehemia assured her. "In fact, she asked me to ask you if she could borrow one of your necklaces." 

"Well," Lady Trelliser replied smugly, "I'm afraid not. They were gifted to me by the king, and if they found their way into her husband's apartments..." 

A crestfallen look and a sigh from Nehemia had sealed the idea in Lady Trelliser's mind. Once that was done, Nehemia snuck into her chambers and pocketed one of the necklaces. Which she then, of course, planted in the duchess's chambers. 

Now came the difficult part: Lady Trelliser must find the necklace in the duchess's rooms, but she must not connect Nehemia to it, or the ruse might be revealed. For this she enlisted Countess Kaltain. Nehemia disliked it immensely, but it was necessary. Kaltain was the perfect person to help Lady Trelliser "discover" the necklace; Kaltain and Nehemia were widely known to dislike each other, so no one would ever assume they were working together. As to how she had gained Kaltain's cooperation? She had simply reminded the woman that she owed Nehemia for saving her from the headsman's ax, and called in her favor. 

And thus Kaltain happily led Lady Trelliser to the duchess's rooms, where Lady Trelliser, to her shock, had found the necklace.

The duchess, of course, was insulted at the idea that she would steal one of Lady Trelliser's ugly necklaces. But Lady Trelliser would have none of it. The necklace had been in the duchess's apartments, after all. 

And thus, with the king's fiancee feuding with the wife of the king's right-hand man, the stage was set for a rift to grow between the two. The Duke already disliked Lady Trelliser; her going after his beloved Henrietta would only add more fire to the flames. And the king, no doubt, would foolishly defend his fiancee's honor, causing him to have a falling-out with Duke Perrington. 

The consequences of which could be two-fold; either the king fired Duke Perrington, which was not ideal, but would give Nehemia an opening she could fill with a courtier she knew was pro-Eyllwe. But if it was as Nehemia suspected, and Duke Perrington was too important to fire...then the first step in compelling the duke to murder his king would be completed. 

And he had to be the one to kill King Dorian I, of course. Because if anyone from any rebel faction did it, it could sway the crown prince in a less lenient fashion. However, if someone like Duke Perrington were to do it...then the crown prince would have his throne, and still be relatively amenable to working with Eyllwe. 

It was a long shot, but if it worked, it would be worth it. 


	7. In Too Deep

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Aelin attends her first rebel sympathizer meeting, and discovers that there are ACTUAL Terrasenite loyalists. Aelin thus digs herself deeper into her fake rebellion lie.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I made up the salute-that is pure fanon. And yeah, I love torturing Aelin with royal responsibilities.  
I'm sorry if you don't like patriotic! Ren. I personally find him hilarious, but that's my preference.

Aelin had to admit, she was impressed. She had not thought that the Eyllwe rebel sympathizers in Adarlan were so organized-or from such a diverse array of backgrounds. 

For starters, there were far more lily-white Adarlanians among the rebel sympathizers then Aelin would _ever_ have guessed. And they were not a sort that Aelin would ever have guessed to be sympathizers. There was famed madame Clarisse DuVency, whose courtesans were _well_ known to the wealthy and privileged of Rifthold, a nervous-looking secretary for the Treasury Minister, a famous chocolate maker whose sweets Arobynn had occasionally rewarded Aelin with after a job well done, and one very disgruntled baronet. 

"Together, the combined donations of these four make up our-and by extension, the rebels'-treasury," Nehemia had explained. However, their reasoning for doing so still eluded Aelin. 

There was also Donatello, a refugee from Melisande who worked at the docks, who, according to Nehemia, was responsible for smuggling supplies to Eyllwe. He, in conjunction with a clerk from Fenharrow, forged papers allowing refugees and escaped slaves to start new lives. 

And then there were the people from Eyllwe. Three of them were disposed nobles hiding under false names in Adarlan, one was a blacksmith who made weapons for the rebels, and another was a surly refugee who served as the unusual group's spymaster. 

"And this," Nehemia announced to her colleagues, gesturing to Aelin, "Is Lilian Gordaina, an operative for Aelin Galathynius, and her chosen representative for this meeting."

The eleven gathered sympathizers murmured among themselves, expressing their shock and utter disbelief that _Aelin_ was alive. 

"I know it is quite hard to believe that a member of Terrasen's royal family is still alive after all this time," Nehemia said, "Which is why I have, naturally, provided a letter written by none other than the Assassin King Arobynn Hamel himself, addressed to Aelin, to erase any doubts you may have in your minds. Lillian has also provided letters written by the princess addressed to her, if you are not convinced." 

And with that, Nehemia handed a stack of papers to the person nearest to her, who began reading and passing them around. 

The "letters from Aelin" were, of course _completely_ fabricated. Not in the sense that Aelin hadn't actually written them-she had- but rather in that since "Aelin" and "Lillian" were the same person, Aelin was not really corresponding with someone so much as creating an entire epistolary relationship out of whole cloth. 

Thus the "Aelin" of the letters ended up being no realer a person than "Lillian Gordaina" was. The letters' "Aelin" was a regal, determined young woman, who still held out hope that someday, she would have her throne back, and had a coterie of loyal cronies who hoped alongside her. As opposed to, of course, the Aelin of reality, who was alone, and knew full well that "claiming her throne" was nothing more than a pipe dream, right there in terms of terms of realism alongside someday making the sky rain gold. 

When the letters had finally been read by everyone, Clarisse Du Vency asked nervously, 

"So...what does Her Royal Highness hope to _gain_ from this, exactly?" 

Aelin smiled. 

"Freedom from Adarlan's tyranny, of course," she replied. "For Terrasen and Eyllwe both." 

Well, for Terrasen, that was impossible, given the king's iron grip on the region, but Eyllwe might stand a chance.

"And where, exactly, has she been hiding all this time?" asked Baako Elba, the spymaster. 

Damn it. That was a good question. One which Aelin had no answer for. At least, not one which fit her story.

"I would hardly be doing my mistress a service by telling you now, would I?" Aelin blurted out, laughing nervously. 

"That is a fair point," Baako conceded. "However, you will forgive us for being the slightest bit curious about her. After all, most believe that she was killed alongside the rest of her family ten years ago. And now here you are, telling us that the princess has actually been _alive_ all this time." 

"Indeed," gasped the government secretary. "All this time, I thought she'd...I thought we'd...there's _hope_ now. We might...we might...actually be _free_."

"_We_?!" Aelin cried, utterly taken aback. "Aren't you from..._Adarlan_?" 

The secretary shook his head vehemently. 

"Not on my life," he said, standing up suddenly from his seat. "I am Terrasen-bred and born, miss, and proud." 

Then, to Aelin's horror, the secretary drew a V-shape across his chest with his right fist-the traditional Terrasenite salute. 

"I am Lord Ren of Allsbrook," the secretary declared. "And it would be an _honor_ to serve Her Highness." 

Sweet merciful gods...what had Aelin done? What she had gotten herself into? 

When she'd first conceived of the plan to align herself with Nehemia's little rebellion, never in Aelin's wildest daydreams had it occurred to her that people would be _this_ affected by the news of her existence. She'd expected them to treat it more like a fascinating tidbit of information, not the stunning revelation everyone was acting like it was. And she certainly hadn't expected any fellow Terrasenite refugees to pop out of the woodwork and declare their allegiance to her. 

"Oh, great," Donatello groaned. "Now he'll _never_ shut up about Terrasen. Every time we meet, it's Terrasen this, Terrasen that, 'Terrasen was so perfect according to my grandfather', 'If only Aelin Galathynius was still alive', blah blah blah." 

"It _was_ perfect," Ren snapped. "That is, before the king of Adarlan came along." 

Ren turned to Aelin and begged, his brown eyes wide with longing,

"You will mention me to her, won't you? Tell her how loyal I am? How overjoyed I am that she's alive?" 

Well...dammit. She couldn't possibly refuse this over-eager, patriotic fool in front of all these people, or else she'd look heartless. Not to mention, suspicious. After all, why would Princess Aelin reject the aid of loyal lords? 

"Her Highness...is always happy to recruit new members for the...Order of the Wildfire," Aelin replied nervously, holding her hand for Ren to shake it. "Welcome to the order, Lord Allsbrook." 

Ren walked up to her, shook her hand eagerly, and cried, 

"You won't regret this, Miss Gordaina!" 

Aelin glanced at Nehemia, smiling weakly. 

_ Please don't hate me for stealing your people_, she pleaded silently. 

"Ahem," Nehemia announced, her face unreadable. "If we are done saluting Terrasenite royalty, can we please get down to business?" 

And with that, the meeting went off without a hitch. Baako reported that a new slave ship was about to dock in the harbor. Ren and Aelin were assigned to rescue the group of slaves who were about to come into the harbor on that ship, and Donatello and the Fenharrow clerk, who went by the name of Katya, were ordered to start creating fake papers and begin procuring transport for the about-to-be rescued slaves. The blacksmith reported that the shipment of the weapons he'd made had gone off without a hitch, and was consequently ordered to start making more. The three wealthy Adarlanian supporters coughed up their hefty donations, which Nehemia thanked them for and made a note of. The three Eyllwe refugees were told to keep pressuring more Eyllwe nobles into joining their cause and to keep creating propaganda for the rebellion. 

It was, all in all, a productive meeting for the rebellion, near as Aelin could tell. So productive, in fact, that Aelin forgot that she was faking being part of a different rebellion until Nehemia said:

"Alright, now, if you would tell the Order of the Wildfire to our goings-on, Lillian, that would be perfect." 

"Yes. O-of course," Aelin replied, grimacing as she nodded. "Will do." 

"Oh, and pardon me for suggesting it, but...perhaps you could persuade Aelin to get Arobynn Hamel to help us?" Nehemia added. " I know your mistress has a...checkered history with the Assassin King, but...it would really be a godsend."

"Sure..." Aelin said, privately thinking,_ Oh, sweet Lumas, I have to rope_ him _into this?_

What had she _done_? First she lied about being a rebel agent for herself, now she was recruiting people for a fake rebellion and strong-arming the man who was second only to the King of Adarlan in how much she hated him! This was getting _way_ out of hand. Everything was _much_ simpler when she was merely using Dorian as a stepping stone to get access to his father. And that was saying something, considering that that little job required pretending to be both his mistress _and_ a bloodthirsty assassin who was all too eager to start working for the king.

When Aelin had first imagined this little gig, she'd figured it would simply be a matter of steering Nehemia and her people to victory. But now...now Aelin was three people at once: Lillian Gordaina, feather-brained mistress to the Crown Prince, Lillian Gordaina, operative for "Aelin Galathynius" and rebel scum, and finally, Celaena Sardothien, the Crown Prince's sponsored champion. 

It was too late now, though. Aelin was in this until the end. 

* * *

* * *

Lady Gordaina had seemed...oddly _ill at ease_ when Nehemia asked her to report to her mistress. Which was strange, because surely she would be keeping her liege informed regardless of whether Nehemia said so, right? Was Gordaina's relationship with the princess not as good as she let on? Were they, perhaps, going through a bit of a rough patch? 

But if that was the case, why would Aelin have picked Lady Gordaina to infiltrate the glass castle? Surely she would only entrust such an important job to someone she trusted with her life. 

That was not the only odd thing about the princess's representative, however. She'd also seemed rather..._reluctant_ to take Ren Allsbrook in to the Order of the Wildfire. Indeed, after the meeting, she'd actually apologized for "stealing Nehemia's associates right from under her". In fact, everything about the deposed Terrasenite lord had seemed make Gordaina very nervous. 

What was it about the Lord of Allsbrook that made Gordaina so nervous? Was there bad blood between the Allsbrooks and the Order? If, then why had Ren never so much as given a hint of it? Not once in all of his crazed ramblings about Terrasen did he once mention anything his family might have done to earn the ire of the Galathyniuses, or hint that any members who survived might have a grudge against him. Indeed, to hear him tell it, he and his grandfather had been staunch supporters of the royals, up until and long after the dynasty fell. 

Still, as shrouded in mystery as the Order of the Wildfire was, it had been a wise choice to give them a seat at the table. For, as unlikely as it was, if Gordaina succeeded in getting Arobynn Hamel to join them...then it would be a mere matter of telling the Assassin King to make an offer to Duke Perrington at just the right time...and the King of Adarlan would be history. 

But of course, Nehemia wasn't planning on relying on Arobynn entirely. Judging by Arobynn's letter, there was some serious bad blood between the Assassin King and the princess of Terrasen, enough to make recruiting him a problem. 

So naturally, she had an alternative in case Arobynn wouldn't play nice. 

* * *

* * *


	8. The Order of the Wildfire

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Asterin commits murder but accidentally frames the wrong person. Aelin and Ren liberate the slave ship. Aelin learns about her former employer's past. Ren reunites with his grandfather and two more people join the Order of the Wildfire. 
> 
> Dorian engages in some secret charity work and reminiscences on old times with Chaol.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I read an excerpt from "The Captain and the Prince" and I can't help but think most of it is bunk. However, the idea of Dorian disliking being sheltered does something right to me. 
> 
> And yes, Dorian absolutely DOES reciprocate Chaol's feelings for him. And once again, Adarlan is homophobic.

Before the tournament, there had been thirty competitors. Thanks to Asterin's machinations, on the first day of the tournament, there had only been twenty-seven. By the end of the first day, there had only been twenty-four. The end of the second day ensured that-including Asterin-there were only twenty-one competitors in total. A full third of the competition had been shaved off, but still, that was not enough. If the three matches per day schedule continued, that would leave six or seven days of tournament left. 

Which was far less than the anticipated ten-day stretch, but the less time it took to attain the position of Royal Assassin, the better. 

And so it was time. 

Asterin, in the guise of "Sara the consumption-riddled pickpocket", had easily made friends with the only other woman in the barracks, a drunk debtor named Mia Taylor. If, of course, you took the word "friend" to mean "patsy". 

Mia herself was no threat; the only reason the booze-swilling fool had survived this far was because both of the tournament days she'd been too drunk to even stand, let alone fight. Stealing booze, and then drinking it, appeared to be the woman's only skill set. 

However, Asterin happened to know that Philip Corden, one of the sponsored Champions, had taken a shine to Mia, even going so far as to ask her for sexual favors. Mia had turned him down hard. 

And thus, it would be all too easy for the referees to believe that Philip Corden had killed her tomorrow. Especially if his knife was still there in her stomach the next morning. And with Philip gone, that'd be another sponsor without a champion, and another threat eliminated. 

Which needed to happen, because if yesterday was any indication, the pool of nobodies was going to disappear quickly, and Asterin could not afford to be matched with another Cain so early in the tournament. At least, not if she wanted to keep her cover. 

With that, Asterin plunged Corden's knife several times into the sleeping Mia's stomach, and then, once Mia was no more, left it there. She then cleaned herself up and went back to bed. 

***

As before, there was a stir the next morning, with the idiot referees staring in shock over Mia's body. Eventually, they found the knife, and grabbed Philip Corden. But just as they were about to haul him off to be executed, however, One-eyed Sam just happened to say: 

"You deserve it, you rat bastard, for stealing my knife!" 

The referees froze, and turned to stare at One-Eyed Sam. 

"Hold it," the chief referee said, pointing at the knife in Mia Taylor's body. "You don't mean this knife, do you?" 

"That I do," One-Eyed Sam replied with a nod. "That there's mine, it is. Corden stole that, he did." 

Asterin's jaw dropped. What kind of idiot would admit to having a contraband weapon? At a murder scene no less? 

"If that is indeed your knife, can you prove that you did not kill Miss Taylor?" the chief referee demanded. 

"Ummm..." One-Eyed Sam stammered, realizing right then and there what a huge mistake he'd made. 

"Arrest him." 

And with that, One-Eyed Sam was dragged off to his doom.

Well. That wasn't what Asterin had wanted to happen, but not a bad result over all. 

Little did Asterin know...

* * *

* * *

"You ready?" Aelin asked as they stared at the slave ship they were about to sneak onto. It was a moderately sized ship, not at all like the truly massive slave ships Aelin had once seen in Skull's Bay. But it was still big enough to hold plenty of slaves for the market. 

Ren nodded.

"Anything for Her Majesty."

"Good. Then let's get to it." 

With that, Aelin leaped up from the dock and swung herself through the window and into the lower decks of the ship. Ren followed suit, and soon they were creeping along towards the hold, tiptoeing so as to minimize noise. 

"Tell, how fares our princess?" Ren breathed as they passed the sailors' quarters. "Is she safe, wherever she is?" 

Aelin tensed. She had long gotten used to being addressed as someone other than herself; the name of Celaena Sardothien had become almost like a second skin to her, and slipping into other aliases, like Lilian Gordaina and Dianna Brackyn, took almost no effort these days.

But normally when she slipped into a fake name, she wasn't referring to herself in the third person-and definitely not acting as if her alias was her true self, and that her true self was a different person all together. Her false names were not separate people so much as they were a mask to cover up who she was. And just like a mask covered up the details but left the shape of the face intact, so too did Aelin's aliases cover up her life history while still leaving plenty of room for her personality to shine. 

But this? Pretending to be...Lilian Gordaina while "Aelin" was someone else who was far away at the moment, it was jarring. 

"She's fine," Aelin assured him. "And perfectly safe, as safe as she can be right now." 

Ren sighed in relief. 

"That's good. Dare I ask where she is, or is that a secret trusted only to senior members of the order?" 

Oh, shit. Of course people would want to know where "Aelin" was. 

"Her...hideout moves from place to place," Aelin said quickly. "So much so that it is hard for even senior members to keep track of where she is." 

"I...see." 

At last they reached the hold where the slaves were kept. Inside there were about a hundred or so slaves, all of whom were chained to the floor, which was absolutely covered in filth. More than half of the slaves looked like they came from Eyllwe, the other half from Fenharrow, but there were a couple of paler prisoners who could have been from anywhere in the back. 

Ren wasted no time in picking apart the locks on the slaves' chains, and, to Aelin's surprise, did so with a fair bit of expertise and efficiency. 

_What did he do before being a secretary, I wonder?_ Aelin thought to herself as she began picking apart locks on the chains alongside him. 

His inexplicable lock-picking skills were not the only surprise awaiting Aelin that night. For it would turn out that Ren was not the only Terrasenite eagerly awaiting Aelin's return on the boat.

"Ren?" gasped one of the paler prisoners as Ren undid the locks on his chains. He was an elderly gentleman with scraggly gray hair and stubble. "Is that you?"

"_Grandfather_?" Ren cried. "I...I...what are you doing here?" 

"I was caught by slavers while looking for you," the man said. "Oh, I missed you so much, my boy." 

Tears were forming in Ren's eyes. 

"I missed you too, Grandfather." 

Ren and the elderly gentleman then tearfully embraced as Aelin finished freeing the other prisoner, who snapped as she rubbed her wrists, 

"Not to cut short the family reunion, but do you care to explain who your friend is?" 

Ren pulled himself away from his grandfather and said, 

"Oh. Right. Grandfather, Ravi, this is Lillian Gordaina. She's a member of the Order of the Wildfire-Aelin's resistance group." 

Ren turned to Aelin. 

"Miss Gordaina, this man is Murtaugh Allsbrook, my grandfather. And the woman you just freed is Ravi of Suria. They are fellow Terrasenites in exile." 

"Aelin's _alive_?" Murtaugh gasped.

Ren nodded excited. 

"Yes," he said breathlessly. "She has been this whole time. I know. It just...feels too good to be true, doesn't it? But it is?" 

Ravi stared at Aelin with skepticism in her light blue eyes. 

"I've...never heard of the Order of the Wildfire before," she said. 

"We're a....very secretive group," Aelin blurted out quickly. "Now come on. There's no time. The crew will be waking up soon." 

And thus began the ordeal of escorting a hundred former slaves off the ship. After somehow managing to sneak a hundred people out of the hold while making minimal noise, they escaped the way they had come: through the window. Only this time, it was a time-consuming process of getting each slave through the window and onto the dock one at a time, until they were all, Ren and Aelin included, off the ship. 

Now that they were free, the next challenge was sneaking a hundred or so prisoners to Donatello and Katya's office, where their false papers. This oddly enough, they somehow managed to accomplish with only one minor hiccup.

This hiccup being that they were spotted by two mysterious cloaked figures crossing the street when they arrived at an intersecting road in the slums. One of them had extremely noisy armor which clanked as he walked, and the other had a fat purse of coins in his hands. The coin-holder also had oddly familiar sapphire eyes, which he used to stare at Aelin, Ren, and their merry little army of escaped slaves in utter confusion. 

After a few tense minutes, a silent agreement came into being, via an acknowledging nod on the parts of both Aelin and the sapphire-eyed coin holder. Whatever mysterious business the other party was doing in the middle of the night, neither party would ask of it or reveal the other to the authorities. Nor would either party interfere in whatever strange activity the other was doing. 

And with that, both parties continued on their merry way-the cloaked gentlemen to wherever they were going, and Aelin, Ren, and the slaves to Donatello and Katya's office, where the escaped slaves hurried to get their false papers and begin their new lives. 

All except for two. 

"What is Aelin like, Ren?" Murtaugh asked. "Tell me. What are her plans? Has she treated you well? Has the Order kept you safe these past four years?" 

Ren sighed and shook his head. 

"I'm afraid I haven't met Aelin yet," he told his grandfather. "If you want to know her plans, I'm afraid you'll have to ask Miss Gordaina; she's Aelin's chief spy in the castle. And I've only been part of the Order since last night, when Gordaina recruited me. I still have much to learn about its inner workings." 

_Which are practically nonexistent_, Aelin thought to herself. _Since the Order, you know, doesn't really exist. _

"So...where you have been, grandson?" 

"House Trelliser picked me up as a pageboy after we were separated in that attack," Ren told them. "From there I got a job as a secretary to the Treasury Minister, where I helped myself to his coin and joined the Princess Nehemia's resistance group, to prevent what happened to Terrasen from happening to Eyllwe." 

"And now...you work for this...Order of the Wildfire," Ravi mused, frowning as she did. "Which, in all my travels across Terrasen...I have never heard of. For a princess...who is, by all appearances, dead." 

Well. So not every Terrasenite refugee was prone to falling all over themselves when they heard Aelin was alive. Thank. The Gods. 

"I have seen letters written in Aelin's own hand, to Miss Gordaina," Ren declared. "As well as a letter written to Aelin by none other than Arobynn Hamel himself." 

"_Arobynn_?!" Murtaugh and Ravi gasped in unison. "That criminal?!" 

"Yes, he's an assassin," Aelin snapped. "But the death of Her Highness's family did not leave her with the ability to be choosy. Any more than the fall of Terrasen did for you." 

Granted, she still hated the bastard for all he'd done to her, what he'd made her do-but she would not say that he hadn't rescued her from the king's soldiers in the nick of time, or that he hadn't kept his end of the bargain in keeping her safe. 

"Yes, but he's not just an assassin lord," Murtaugh scoffed. "Did she tell you what he did to her mother?" 

"Uh," Aelin stammered, caught totally off-guard by this information. "What, exactly, did he do to my-_my lady's_-mother?" 

If he'd hurt Evalin Ashryver Galathynius in any way, Aelin was going to make sure the man was nothing more than a bloody smear on the wall. 

"Aelin was only barely out of the cradle when it happened, Murtaugh," Ravi snapped. "And only eight when the kingdom fell. there's no way she could possibly have known. It's not the sort of thing you tell a little girl." 

"Well, she is not a little girl any more," Aelin hissed. "And neither am I. Tell me: _what did Arobynn Hamel do to Evalin Ashryver Galathynius?!_ Because I swear, he will pay tenfold for whatever-" 

"He never got to do anything like you think, Miss Gordaina," Ravi assured her, her hands in a placating gesture, looking confused by and yet terrified of Aelin's sudden shift in tone. "I promise." 

"He did, however, make unsavory comments in that direction, though," Murtaugh informed her. "The little rat told her all about how he'd like to do things of a...nature usually related to the bedroom to her. Which the royal family naturally did not, of course, take kindly to." 

"Well, that, and the blatant tax fraud," Ravi added. "Given all that, it's only natural he was placed under house arrest, stripped of his lands and title, and exiled from Orynth for the rest of his life." 

"Arobynn used to be a..._nobleman_?" Aelin gasped. "But I...I thought he was a by-blow, or, or just _lying_." 

Murtaugh shook his head. 

"Sadly, no," he replied. "He used to be everywhere at court, and was an odious young man, too." 

Odious, maybe. But...if this was true...if Arobynn really was a disgraced member of House Hamel who'd made advances towards her mother...then Aelin had an advantage. All she had to do was promise to restore his status once Terrasen was free, and she'd have him in the palm of her hand. And if _Arobynn Hamel_ was her bitch, the entire Assassin's Guild would be at her beck and call. And wouldn't that be a lovely thing to have handy when you wanted to free Eyllwe and get revenge against the Havilliards? 

Maybe playing long-lost princess wouldn't be so bad after all. 

And then, as if the gods were mocking her for her impertinence, Ren then had the audacity to suggest: 

"Grandfather, Lady Ravi, if I may make a suggestion: why not join forces with me and the Order? I mean, you've always talked about how you wished one of the Galathyniuses had survived..." 

"I..I think that would be a decision that would have to be made by Miss Gordaina," Murtaugh pointed out, taken aback by the situation. "You know, since she's...your superior and everything. But yes...I would...gladly join the Order, if it would please you, Miss Gordaina. And so would Ravi." 

"Yes," Ravi replied. "I....I may have my misgivings, but I cannot say that I am not glad that Aelin Galathynius is alive after all. You wouldn't...mind, would you?" 

Aelin's jaw dropped. 

_Crap_, she thought. _Not again. It was bad enough when I had only to keep Ren off my back. At this rate, the Order of the Wildfire is going to stop being fictional_ fast. 

"But...of course," Aelin blurted out nervously, knowing how deeply she was fucking herself over by doing so. "Her Highness...is all too happy to accept new members into the Order. Welcome aboard, Lord Murtaugh, Lady Ravi."

Because of course, "Aelin" would never turn away loyal subjects, would she? Especially if she was willing to work with her less-than-savory ones? 

Those were the consequences of making herself out to be some hidden rebel queen. Aelin was just going to have to learn to live with them.

* * *

* * *

"Must you wear _armor_ whenever we go out?" Dorian complained as he stowed his cloak underneath the bed. "I mean, what's the point of the cloak and the cover of dark if you're just going to alert people to your true identity whenever you take one step?"

"There isn't, Your Highness," Chaol pointed out. "You could make all these donations to the orphanage publicly, you know?"

"Yeah, except that it's an orphanage for _non-Adarlanian children_," Dorian snapped. "Which caters to orphans whose parents were on the _losing side_ of the various stupid wars my father has engaged in. If I am seen publicly donating to this orphanage, everything I have worked to make my father believe about me will come _crashing down_. He will think that because I don't want them to live on the streets, that I must be plotting to usurp him. And then it will be my head on the chopping block." 

_ And, you, my friend, would likely be next_, Dorian added to himself. 

"Why donate at all, if it's so risky, then?" Chaol demanded. "Why not just stay in bed like you should at this hour?" 

"Because the Great Goddess demands that the highborn care for the lowest among us," Dorian retorted. "And who am I to disobey the Great Goddess?" 

"A wise man, according to you," Chaol scoffed, rolling his eyes. 

Dorian gasped. 

"A..._wise man?_ A..._wise man?_" he cried. "In what way would incurring the Great Goddess's wrath be wise? Why would I want her to destroy my kingdom and reign in one fell swoop? Do you think I'm my father, that I only care about myself?" 

Chaol shook his head. 

"No," he admitted sadly. "I think you're the opposite. I'm sorry, my prince. I shouldn't have snapped at you." 

Dorian laughed bitterly. 

"Neither should I," he admitted, pouring himself a glass of wine. "We were both at fault." 

Dorian took a sip of wine and said, 

"Look at us, fighting like we used to. Like when we first met." 

"When I was first assigned to be your bodyguard, you mean?" Chaol said. 

"Or, rather, my _sheepdog_, as fifteen-year-old me so rudely put it," Dorian replied with as sigh. 

"Fifteen-year-old Chaol was no model of good manners either," Chaol pointed out. "Especially not when it came to addressing a prince."

Dorian chuckled. 

"No. You were not." 

And that was the _least_ of the things Dorian had found wrong with Chaol when Queen Georgiana had first foisted him upon her son. For one thing, he was attentive to his duty, to the point of following Dorian everywhere. Even to the privy. Since Dorian's cover, as well as his secret life, required an extensive ability to sneak around without being noticed, this irritated Dorian to no end.

The second thing Dorian had hated about Chaol was that he was intelligent, which made it hard for Dorian to give him the slip. Which fifteen-year-old Dorian had done almost as much as breathing. And when Dorian succeeded in doing so, it was never for very long. The longest he'd managed amounted to only a single day. 

At the end of which Chaol had found Dorian in a brothel, fully dressed, with the prostitute he'd paid to pretend he had sex with not-so-fully dressed. 

"I have spoken to the priests of Lumas, my lord," Chaol had announced as he entered the room. "They have informed me that there is no such thing as a 'private Mass' celebrated on his birthday. They have also told me that it is most _certainly_ not celebrated in brothels. Why you, as a devout follower of Lumas's more..._esoteric_ teachings should be so misinformed, I have no idea." 

Dorian had greeted this with a groan as he threw his hands up in the air. 

"Fine. You got me. I'm not a follower of Lumas's 'secret cult'. I wanted to visit a brothel without you. Find fault with that all you want, but at least let me _pay_ the girl before you cart me off."

"Prostitutes are paid before they perform their services, as you well know," Chaol had replied, right before demonstrating the third thing Dorian had hated about Chaol: namely, that he was amazingly strong. Strong enough to unceremoniously lift Dorian over his shoulder without so much as a grunt of protest, and carry him over said shoulder all the way through the palace. 

"Speaking as a man who used to be fifteen-year-old Chaol," Chaol said as he eyed Dorian's wine-glass. "But is wine really an appropriate thing to drink before bed, Your Highness?" 

Dorian rolled his eyes. 

"I'm a _degenerate_, remember? And besides, if I smell like wine tomorrow, it'll only serve to further convince my father that I'm no threat." 

"I just don't want you to _actually_ develop the drinking habit you pretend to have," Chaol pointed out worriedly. 

That was the fourth thing Dorian had hated about Chaol: he was not afraid to talk back to Dorian. Eventually, he realized this was merely a consequence of Chaol being invested in his safety, but fifteen-year-old Dorian, who had _never_ been talked back to by anyone of lesser status before, had found this tendency to be infuriatingly insubordinate.

Especially since this tendency extended to letting slip to Queen Georgiana that Dorian had never _actually_ slept with any of the women he "seduced". And that he wasn't a drunk, either. Which, in retrospect, had been good, since it ended up meaning that Georgiana didn't die believing her son was a degenerate. But fifteen-year-old Dorian, whose mother was perfectly healthy, and in no way about to die, had been _furious_. He'd practically chewed Chaol's head off because of it. 

Chaol snatched the wine glass from Dorian and poured the wine in it out the window. 

"So therefore, that's enough wine for tonight," he said firmly. "And enough secret acts of goodness. It is time for you to sleep." 

With that, Chaol swiftly and dispassionately undressed Dorian until he had nothing on but his nightshirt, with an efficiency that utterly baffled Dorian. Four years of friendship, and the man was still surprising him. 

Chaol then pulled the covers back on Dorian's bed, scooped Dorian up before he could protest, and pulled the covers over Dorian. 

"Now, goodnight, my prince." 

With that, Chaol blew out the candle on the nightstand, walked out and closed the door behind him. 

"Goodnight," Dorian said meekly and helplessly, long after Chaol had left. 

And that, right there, was the fifth and final thing Dorian had hated about Chaol, and arguably still hated: that he was a man, and not a woman. 

Because Dorian knew that there were women in the palace guard. Or at the least, he knew of _a_ woman: Nesryn Faliq, he believed her name was?

The point was, if Georgiana had chosen a female bodyguard, Dorian could have worked with that. He could have easily faked an affair with any female bodyguard the way he was currently faking an affair with Celaena. He could have explained everything to her, offered her compensation for ruining her reputation, or, if she refused to partake in such an intimate deception, at least come to a different arrangement. 

But Dorian could never be seen "seducing" a man. That would be wrong in the eyes of the Great Goddess, and it would most certainly earn his father's ire. Well, that, and the wrath of all Adarlan.

So the feelings that stirred inside him whenever he saw Chaol take his shirt off, and the strange way his heart went all aflutter whenever Chaol touched him-those feelings had to be pushed down, prayed away in chapel. After all, Chaol had too much integrity to _ever_ feel the same sort of perverse lust that Dorian sometimes had. He'd be horrified, no doubt, at the mere _suggestion_. 

And besides, it wasn't as if Dorian was a complete pervert. Women _did_ manage to excite lust in him, at the very least, unlike some others with his problem the priests had told him about. There was enough hope that he could live a virtuous life free of perversion, and Dorian should seize whatever chance he had for that to the best of his ability. 


	9. Two Can Play At That Game

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Perrington finds out that his champion is dead. He gets revenge for it. Aelin meets with Arobynn Hamel and gains his support for the alliance. 
> 
> Nehemia clues Aelin into the fact that her ambitions are grander than they seem. Aelin tells some of the truth about herself to Nehemia.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I found the sexual subtext between Arobynn and Aelin-and the apparent mutual attraction implied, no less-to be extremely disgusting. So this fic is going to treat that bit as just that: creepy and disgusting. 
> 
> Oh, Aelin, you failed to heed your own advice to Arobynn. Nehemia is not to be underestimated.

"My champion is _dead_?!" Perrington roared. 

"Y-yes," stammered the nervous secretary. "I'm afraid One-Eyed Sam was executed on the third day of the tournament by the tournament officials." 

"_W-what_?" Perrington sputtered. "_Why_?" 

"He murdered one of the other competitors outside of the ring," the secretary explained. "And tried to frame another competitor for it." 

Perrington slammed his hands on his desk in anger. 

"But of _course_!" he groaned. "Of course my champion is executed for 'murder' two days after I dare to cross the King's _precious mistress_. What a coincidence, isn't it?" 

Perrington stared down at his desk, which was absolutely cluttered with paperwork. Paperwork, which of course, pertained to the running of the kingdom His Majesty so loved to neglect. In favor of that stupid mistress, no less. 

Perrington glanced back up at the secretary and barked, 

"Contact Arobynn Hamel. Tell him I have a job for him." 

"A...job?" the secretary stammered. "What kind of job?" 

"I want Philip Corden dead," Perrington declared. "And I want him dead by sundown today. Tell him he can name his price, so long as those terms are met." 

"But...Your Grace," the secretary pointed out, "That's a champion in the tournament you're talking about. That's Lady Trelliser's champion, no less." 

"I know." 

"Then-" 

"I want the king to know that _two_ can play at that game." 

* * *

* * *

Wow. It was only the fourth day of the tournament, and already there were only twelve competitors left. Perhaps Asterin had been a bit rash in killing off Mia and Sam; at this rate, they had only four more days of the tournament left. 

No. The quicker Asterin could become the royal assassin, the quicker she'd be able to free her people from those Wyrdstone collars. 

The pile of nobodies, at least, was disappearing quickly. And of the eight nobodies, four looked to be serious competition. Soon she'd be able to drop to "consumptive pickpocket" pretense and have some fun.

These happy thoughts would quickly dispel themselves, however, by the first of the competitors in line crying "Sweet Lumas!" as he entered the barracks. 

" What is it?"" demanded the competitor behind him angrily. 

"It's...it's Philip," the other competitor cried. "He's...he's dead!" 

Asterin's jaw dropped. 

_Dead? But I didn't...I didn't_ do _anything_...

All the competitors assembled immediately rushed into the barracks, to find Philip Corden lying in a pool of his own blood, a knife plunged into his stomach, with a note written on a piece of cream-colored stationary lying next to him. 

Everyone immediately began accusing each other, demanding to know who did it. Asterin remained silent, horrified at the realization that someone else was cunning enough to bump off the competiton nightly as well. 

"What is this?" barked a tournament official as he barged into the room. "What is this noise?" 

The official then stopped dead in his tracks as he saw the body of Philip Corden. 

"Merciful....gods," he cried. "It's...it's...another one." 

Trembling, the official picked up the piece of stationary and read its contents aloud:

"To Sam's murderer: you are not the only one who can hire assassins. This reminder is brought to you courtesy of Arobynn Hamel." 

"I...I..." the tournament official stammered. "But...why would Arobynn target a _champion_?" 

_Because he was paid to_, Asterin realized. _By someone who's angry that Sam is dead. Likely, somebody with money and connections. _

The tournament official turned towards the competitors. 

"To...bed, all of you," the tournament official ordered. 

* * *

* * *

"_Celaena?!_" Arobynn gasped, as Aelin climbed through the window and into Arobynn's study. "What...what are you doing here?" 

"_You_ will address me as '_Your Highness_'," Aelin said loftily, holding her chin high as she walked toward him. "And I have _business_ to discuss with you." 

_Better have him get used to it_, Aelin thought to herself. _Can't have him slipping up in front of the other Terrasenites, can I? _

Of course, he wouldn't be referring to her as _Aelin_ in front of them, but it would not do to have the Terrasenites keeling over at Arobynn's familiarity with "Aelin". 

"Look, I know you're angry," Arobynn said, backing up onto his chair as he did, "But please, we can talk this out-" 

"Relax," Aelin snapped, seating herself in the plush red chair across from Arobynn. "I am not here to take revenge on you." 

_Although I probably should be_, she added to herself. _You bastard. _

Arobynn sighed with relief and sat properly once more in his chair. 

"Thank _Lumas_!" he cried. "But then, what are you here for?"

"I am making plans to take back Terrasen," Aelin announced.

Well, that was the pretense, anyway. But Arobynn would be easier to deal with if 

"_Terrasen_?" Arobynn exclaimed. "But...there isn't an _inch_ of that country that isn't crawling with the king's soldiers!" 

_You're right_, Aelin agreed silently. _And, yet, somehow, I have four loyal Terrasenites at my command expecting me to seat my ass on its throne. _

"You think too small, Arobynn," Aelin scoffed with an arrogance that was entirely feigned. "Have you heard of the Order of the Wildfire?" 

Everyone was talking about last night's rescue; Aelin would be surprised if he hadn't. 

"That...that group of _madmen_?" Arobynn cried. "You're not involved with them, are you?" 

"I am not _involved_ with them," Aelin said haughtily. "I am the brains _behind_ them!" 

Which was technically true, since it was her and her big mouth which had accidentally created the group in the first place.

"Yes," Arobynn murmured, utterly horrified. "It would be like you to involve yourself in radical acts of abolitionism." 

Aelin chuckled as she recalled that time in Skull's Bay, the incident which had led her straight to Endovier, and therefore, arguably gotten this whole ball rolling in the first place. 

"As fun as it is to destroy slavers' livelihoods, the true extent of my plan is _far_ bigger than that," Aelin said. "And in order to bring it to its _true_ fruition, I need your help." 

"My..._help_?" Arobynn squeaked. "Why do you need...my help?" 

Now _that_ was a good question. Technically, she didn't need _anything_ from Arobynn. Aelin could slit the Havilliards' throats all by herself if she wanted to. 

But _Nehemia_ did, for reasons beyond Aelin's understanding. And if Aelin wanted Nehemia's plans to free Eyllwe to succeed-which, because she wanted the king to suffer before he died, she did-Aelin would do anything in her power to make that happen. Plus, a partnership with Arobynn would back up the ridiculous claims she'd made about herself and the so-called Order of the Wildfire-which only grew larger by the minute. 

"You have..._resources_," Aelin began, sounding more sure of herself than she actually felt. "Resources which would benefit myself and Nehemia greatly." 

"N-Nehemia? You have the king's _hostage_ wrapped up in this?"

"Pah! _She_ wrapped _me_ up in this!" Aelin cried. "Don't underestimate her, Arobynn. She is as much a hostage as _I_ am really _Celaena_." 

"I...I...don't understand." 

"Oh, Arobynn, don't tell me you've _forgotten _about her," Aelin scoffed. " About the _real_ Celaena. You know, your _actual_ niece." 

Arobynn shook his head violently. 

"No, of _course_ not," he insisted, but Aelin knew he was lying. After all, it had been several years since the poor, little orphan had died of consumption, and Arobynn was a selfish prick. 

"Well, at any rate, Nehemia's role as a hostage is not the truth-not the sole truth, anyway- so much as a convenient skin to hide her true self behind," Aelin explained. "Just as your poor, deceased niece's name is for me. Or _was_, before that bastard Sam got me shipped to Endovier." 

"And her true self needs me for what...exactly?" Arobynn scoffed. "Does she want to put a hit on the king? If so, her true self better have a heaping amount of gold to pay for it." 

Aelin laughed, an action which made her sound more confident and knowledgeable about everything than she actually was. Because honestly, she didn't know; Nehemia very well might. But if that was the case, Aelin might as well have told Nehemia everything-after all, she was planning on doing exactly that for free. 

"Oh, I honestly don't know," Aelin said, leaning back in her and twiddling her thumbs. "I do know, however, that I have something far better than gold to give you in exchange for it." 

Arobynn raised an eyebrow. 

"Really? What could you, fresh from Endovier, currently playing gladiator for the prince, _possibly_ have to give me?" 

Arobynn's jaw then dropped, as if in realization of something unknown to Aelin. But not for very long, for his expression quickly changed to that of a lecherous grin, as his eyes began to greedily wander all over her body. 

Aelin couldn't help but roll her eyes. Yet another reason she'd been grateful for the Mute Master's enormous help with paying her debt. Besides the whole, of course, being forced into the life of an assassin and murderer-for-hire. Right around the time she turned fifteen, Arobynn's approach towards her had transformed. Where before he was cold, cruel, and indifferent, after her fifteen birthday he had developed a rather..._perverse_ interest in her. Or rather, her body. He kept making strange offers to nullify part of or all of her debt if she would lie with him. Aelin had always refused of course, and thankfully, he never forced himself on her. But still...it had not been easy

_Why am I even_ offering _this to him_? she asked herself. _If he harrassed my mother the way he did me, the court is better off without him. _

"I offer to restore you to your original title as Lord Hamel," Aelin snapped. "Once I become queen again, your title, lands, and status will all be yours again. Your previous crimes will be forgiven, and you can go back to the way things were."

"My...my crimes?" Arobynn gasped. "Do...do you mean-?" 

"Yes, I mean the tax fraud and the way you acted with my mother," Aelin informed him, a little smug. "My people in the Order informed me of your crimes." 

"And...all I have to do get it back is..." 

"Swear fealty to me and to Princess Nehemia Ytger," Aelin told him. "Place all of your resources at her disposal and obey her commands." 

"I...I will," Arobynn gasped. "Tell the Princess she has my resources at her command." 

Aelin smiled as she stood up and held out her hand for Arobynn to shake. 

"Pleasure doing business with you, Arobynn," she said as Arobynn shook her hand. 

With that, she turned on her heel and proceeded to walk out of Arobynn's study. Hardly was she a step towards the door when Arobynn muttered to himself; 

"My, what a strange day. First the Duke hires me to kill Lady Trelliser's champion, now _this!_" 

Aelin stopped dead in her tracks. 

"What did you say about Lady Trelliser's champion?" she asked, turning to Arobynn in horror. 

"Oh, only that I was contracted to kill him by Duke Perrington," Arobynn replied, stroking his chin and grinning. " A contract I accepted and fulfilled." 

"Phillip Corden is...dead?" 

"Yes. That's good news for you, I imagine. One less champion for you to fight."

"I...I..."

* * *

* * *

"Well," Nehemia asked, as Lilian Gordaina burst into her quarters, a look of utter horror on her face. "Did you get the alliance with Arobynn?" 

"Yes," Lillian replied, "Arobynn has promised to put all his resources to your disposal. But there's something more. Duke Perrington assassinated Lady Trelliser's champion." 

Nehemia half smiled as she worked through the rebellion's paperwork. 

"Oh, I knew that already." 

"You..._did_?" Lilian gasped. 

"Yes, everyone does, I expect, by now." 

"Why...why would he do this?" Lilian gasped. "I...mean, his champion is _dead_! Killing a champion won't win him anything; he's already out of the competition! There's...there must be something going on between him and that Lady Trelliser woman..." 

"Indeed there is," Nehemia said, turning in her chair to face Lilian. "The beginnings of a glorious feud." 

"_Glorious_?!" 

"Yes," Nehemia admitted, unable to help but feel proud of her work. "Did you think my ambitions extended only to freeing slaves and funding my brother's rebellion?" 

"I...I..." Lilian stammered, utterly at a loss for words. 

"It's alright if you did," Nehemia assured her. "Being underestimated is just another part of my arsenal. But let me say this: your mistress did well to align herself with my cause." 

"What..what is your plan, exactly?" Lilian sputtered. "Why is it good if Perrington and Lady Trelliser are at odds?" 

Nehemia chuckled. 

"I'm not going to reveal my ambitions for nothing," she said. "Trust is a two-way street, Lady Gordaina. Before I tell you anything, _you_ need to tell me the truth about yourself."

Lilian turned pale.

"The...truth?" she choked out.

"Yes," Nehemia told her. "The truth. How did you _really_ meet Prince Dorian? How did you persuade him to take you on as a mistress? And how do you know Aelin so well?" 

Lillian sighed, a sigh which-oddly enough-sounded like a sigh of relief. 

"I didn't persuade him of anything," Lillian confessed. "_He_ came to _me_ in Endovier." 

Nehemia's eyes widened. 

"_Endovier_?" she gasped. "The salt mines? What were you doing there?" 

"I was a prisoner," Lillian explained. "Because of crimes against the nation I committed. Prince Dorian offered me my freedom, and a pardon for my crimes, and money and a position as the royal assassin. All of which, of course, coming with the condition that I compete as the Crown Prince's champion in the tournament." 

"Dorian's...Champion," Nehemia breathed. "Then that means you are..." 

"Celaena Sardothien, yes," the young woman confessed, shaking her head. "Formerly known as Adarlan's Assassin." 

There were...so many questions going on Nehemia's head right now. If this story was true, then Aelin was more of a force to be reckoned with than Nehemia had thought. 

"How in the world do you know Aelin Ashryver Galathynius, then?" 

Celaena glanced down at the floor. 

"We..._trained_ together," Celaena said slowly, as if she was carefully wording her response so as not to give too much away. "She and I...we were orphans, under the care of Arobynn Hamel. We had no one else to rely on. My...parents were dead, and so were hers." 

Nehemia's eyes widened. 

"Arobynn Hamel trained _Aelin Ashryver Galathynius_ as an..._assassin_?" Nehemia cried. 

"Arobynn's help didn't come for free," Celaena said bitterly. "We each had a debt to pay him for saving our lives. Working for his guild was...the only way we could pay it back. Eventually I managed to...pay my debt, though, and break free of him."

"And when did Aelin break free of hers?" 

"Two years ago. Exact same time I did." 

_That must have been when they founded the Order of the Wildfire_, Nehemia thought to herself. Well, that explains why no one's heard of it-it's only been around for two years, and one of its leaders was in Endovier for half that time. 

"Did Aelin...accept the bargain you had made with Dorian?" 

Celaena nodded. 

"Yes. Aelin instructed me to use it as a means of spying on the royal family," Celaena told Nehemia. "And when I wrote to her about you, she ordered me to join forces with you." 

Celaena sighed. 

"I feel exhausted," she said. "You wouldn't mind if I turned in for the night, would you?" 

"Of course not," Nehemia replied. "Have a good night's sleep." 

Celaena then left, and as she did so, Nehemia could not help but ponder this revelation of her true identity. 

_Well_, she thought to herself. _This explains a lot._

Why "Lillian" took ill just as "Celaena" had to fight Cain; they were the same person, and thus couldn't be in two places at once. The oddly practical outfit she was wearing when Nehemia first took tea with her; she was expecting to fight in the tournament, so she couldn't possibly wear a dress. Why Dorian's mood didn't change after returning from Meah; the magical time he claimed to have with "Lillian" there was entirely fictitious, so of course it made sense that he would still be grieving. 

And yet, at the same time, it only generated more questions. Why would Dorian have an assassin pose as his mistress? Surely there were other, less deadly women he could pay to play the same role. Did Celaena and Dorian have a secret agreement after all? And if so, did Aelin know about it? If she did, what was her opinion on it? 

And why was Dorian so generous in his bargain with Celaena? Why did he need Celaena to win the tournament? 

Which, of course, led right back to the central question: _what was Dorian plotting? _


	10. Requiem For The Duke

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Dorian, determined to avoid being framed for the death of Philip Corden, successfuly gets Perrington arrested for the crime. The tournament, being unable to continue, is postponed, leaving Asterin stranded.  
The king sentences Perrington and Henrietta to be executed, which causes problems for Nehemia, and much guilt for Dorian.  
Aelin learns of Nehemia's true goals regarding Perrington, and is impressed.   
Asterin, frustrated with the way things are going, decides to take matters into her own hands. 
> 
> And meanwhile, a new player is about to enter the scene; Lady Morgana Perrington, Duke Perrington's only daughter and official heir. And one who is not entirely thrilled to inherit her title so soon.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> 1) I deliberately wrote the trial to be unjust, so no legal nitpicking in the comments, please.  
2) I have decided that the non-witch population half believes the witches are extinct, which is why Asterin is so desperate.
> 
> 3) Lady Morgana is an Original Character/ Original Villain of my own creation, and so is the Duchess Henrietta. She does not belong to SJM. I hope you like her.   
4) As you can probably see by now, I've reworked Duke Perrington into more of an anti-villain who's trying to preserve the empire, as opposed to the cliche villain he was in the books. He's loyal, and has a loving family, but he also works for a colonialist shitstorm of a regime, so thus he's evil.   
And finally...yeah, I got rid of that chapter where Aelin tells Nehemia everything; it was too soon for that to happen in the narrative And besides, it was stupid; why would Aelin decide that now is the time to spill the beans to someone she knows beyond a shadow of a doubt is a master schemer. It was stupid and bad writing on my part, and I apologize for it. At least Dorian had a motive to overplay his hand; the Duke has been well established as an overly suspicious character who poisons the king's mind with ideas of Dorian having plans to stage a coup that are nonexistent. Nobody would put it past him to try and frame Dorian for assassinating Philip Corden to get back at a stepmother he hates. It was a bad idea, but it makes sense for his character, whereas the thing with Aelin didn't.

"This is not good," Dorian said as he paced the floor of his bedchamber. "Not good at all."

"That's not entirely true," Chaol pointed out. "With one less sponsored champion in the way, it'll be easier for Celeana to win the competiton." 

Dorian turned sharply towards Chaol. 

"That doesn't _matter_! None of it matters anymore!" he cried. "There are only two people,_" _

Dorian held up two fingers dramatically,

"_Two_ people with enough of a motivation to kill Arabella Trelliser's champion _specifically_. _Me_ and Duke Perrington. Me, because it's known that I can't stand her, and the Duke because she accused Cousin Henrietta of theft." 

"Doesn't...Lord Roland also have a reason?" Chaol pointed out. "Like, you know...winning the tournament?"

"Cousin Roland is all the way in _Meah_," Dorian pointed out. " He doesn't even know who Lady Trelliser is. And besides, if he really wanted to win the tournament, which of the remaining sponsored champions would be more important to eliminate? The smuggler or, I don't know, the _renowned assassin_?" 

"Fair...point," Chaol conceded.

"Exactly. And because we know _I_ didn't do it, it _has_ to be the Duke." 

Dorian bit his nails nervously. 

"And I don't believe for a _second_ that the Duke wouldn't frame me for it. And if word gets out that I murdered my soon-to-be stepmother's champion...I'm DONE FOR! My father will have my head as soon as he gets the tiniest suspicion that I might have done it." 

"So what do you propose we do?" Chaol asked. 

* * *

* * *

"You wanted to see me, Your Highness?" Duke Perrington said as he sat down opposite Dorian at the dining table. 

Whatever this was about, it could not be good. He and the Crown Prince had _never_ been on good terms, to put it lightly. How could a scheming crown prince and the one minister attempting to keep the king's reign afloat ever be? This invitation to lunch had a sinister motive, the Duke was sure of it. 

"I just want to personally thank you for getting rid of that _horrid_ Lady Trelliser's champion," the Crown Prince said as he fed his mistress a bite of turkey from his hand.

"_Really_?" the Duke said, raising an eyebrow.

"But of course," the Crown Prince replied. "You've done me quite a service. Thanks to you, my Celaena's chances of becoming Royal Assassin have become _that_ much greater." 

"Well, yes, I suppose they would have," the Duke admitted. 

_But why do you even care if she succeeds? What do_ you _need with a Royal Assassin in your pocket?_ _Are you planning on using her to kill the king?_

"_And_ you humiliated that harlot as well," the Crown Prince added. "All in one go. How can I _not_ be grateful?" 

The Crown Prince's hatred of Lady Trelliser was the only thing he and the Duke had _ever_ had in common. Their reasons for it, of course, were different: Prince Dorian hated her because the king had cheated on Queen Georgiana with her, the Duke hated her because she was a symptom of, and lately a cause, of the rot that had set into his king's reign. 

"Naturally," the Duke admitted, taking a bite of turkey. "She is _truly_ detestable." 

"That she is," the Crown Prince agreed, taking a sip of wine. "Which is why, of course, you killed her champion." 

"Yes," the Duke replied. "It is. But also because she killed _my_ champion."

Dorian's eyes widened. 

"Well, I wasn't expecting _that_ response," he said, letting out a breath as he did. 

The prince turned to the adjoining room. 

"You can come out now, Lady Trelliser," he called out. 

And sure enough, who should enter the dining room but Lady Trelliser herself, wide-eyed and in utter shock. 

"You...you think _I_ killed your champion?" Lady Trelliser gasped. "But...last I checked, Red James is still alive!" 

Red...James? Had this woman truly paid so little attention to the tournament that she didn't even know which champion the Duke had sponsored? 

"No, Lady Trelliser," the Crown Prince corrected. "Red James is my cousin Roland's champion. One-Eyed Sam was the one the Duke sponsored." 

"Oh," Lady Trelliser replied. "I see." 

She hadn't. She really, _really_ hadn't. Oh no. The Duke had made a serious miscalculation. But more importantly...

"What is Lady Trelliser doing in your apartments?" the Duke cried. 

"Eavesdropping, of course," the Crown Prince replied. "Like I instructed her to." 

"Long is the history of animosity between you and His Highness," the prince's bodyguard said, laying a hand on Dorian's shoulder. "So it is only natural that he anticipated you attempting to frame him." 

The Crown Prince...believed himself...in danger from the Duke? Because of the assassination? 

"So I told my soon-to-be stepmother that I had suspicions about the identity of her champion's murder," Dorian continued. "Suspicions which she was all too glad to try and confirm." 

"This...this. you set me up," the Duke gasped. "This whole thing-the invitation-it was a setup." 

"But of course," Prince Dorian replied. " And now I have not only your confession, but three witnesses who can attest to your confessing." 

_Yes_, the Duke realized as he glanced at Lady Trelliser, Lady Gordaina, and the prince's bodyguard in rapid succession. _You do. And I have made a grievous mistake_. 

He had _utterly_ overestimated Lady Trelliser, for one thing. And in assuming she was behind the murder, had done something which could easily be spun into a crime against the state. 

Prince Dorian snapped his fingers. 

"Guards!" he ordered. "Take the duke away for questioning!" 

The Duke then found himself seized by two members of the royal guard. As they dragged him out of the prince's apartments, the Duke could not help but think, 

_At least I did one thing right: I never underestimated Prince Dorian. And soon, absolutely no one will. _

* * *

* * *

"What do you _mean_, the tournament's postponed?" Asterin cried. 

"I mean, missy, that the tournament is postponed," the official sneered, turning to glare in her direction. "His Grace the Duke Oswald Perrington of Morath has been charged with crimes against His Majesty and the empire-"

"Oh, has he now?" Asterin gasped. 

"Yes," the official snapped, scowling as he did ,"And until His Majesty the King renders judgment, the tournament cannot possibly continue." 

Asterin's face broke out into an evil smile. 

"Thank you, sir," she said sweetly. "I have no more questions at this time." 

"You are all dismissed," the official said testily, waving his hands to the ten competitors still residing the barracks. "Feel free to do whatever you wish with the day, although you are not permitted to leave the barracks." 

The competitors then dispersed, each going off in separate directions. As Asterin went to the training ground, she thought to herself: 

_ So...Perrington has been convicted of something. Something big. What does that mean for my people? Will the king hire someone else to take charge of the...the collar-and-breeding program? Or will Perrington's punishment be enough to put a stop to it? _

Asterin shook her head. No. Best not to get her hopes up.

_ And in the meantime, what do _I_ do? This tournament was going to be my way of freeing them! _

* * *

* * *

His Majesty King Dorian Havilliard I of Adarlan, Emperor of Erilea, examined Duke Perrington, who was currently kneeling before the throne, bruised and in chains. 

Well. This was quite the predicament, wasn't it? He did not bear his cousin-in-law any great love, especially not nowadays, what with his complete disrespect of Arabella and his many, many pointed criticisms of the way King Dorian I managed his empire. Namely, that the king did not do enough managing of it. 

It did not at all surprise him that the Duke had killed his darling Arabella's champion out of spite. Or that his eldest son had suspected it. A blind cave fish would suspect it. No, what surprised him was that Prince Dorian had been _smart enough to get Perrington to confess to it_. 

Perrington's warnings about Dorian had worried him, the king admitted. Prince Dorian had been astoundingly popular with the people ever since he was _small_. And that popularity only grew as Dorian got older. Great Goddess, the first pro-Dorian assassination attempt on the king's life had taken place when Prince Dorian was _nine_. And as Dorian's popularity grew, the king's waned. 

When Georgiana died and Prince Dorian went into mourning, the king's fears only grew. _Especially_ after Prince Dorian discovered that Lord Roland Havilliard of Meah's father wasn't Prince Demetrius of Meah, as most believed, but in fact the king himself. But then the Crown Prince had come back with Lady Gordaina in tow, and had begun acting like his usual drunken womanizing idiot self, laying to rest the king's suspicions. 

Except...there was no way that Prince Dorian should be capable of tricking the Duke into confessing, if he really _was_ a drunken idiot womanizer. 

Decisions, decisions...

"Duke Perrington of Morath," the king announced loudly, so that all those gathered in the great hall could hear him. "You have been charged with assassinating Philip Corden, champion of Lady Arabella Trelliser. As she is the betrothed of Our Majesty, that makes this a crime against the nation." 

"On what _grounds_?" the Duke barked. "You have no evidence; not a shred of proof!" 

The king banged his scepter on the floor. 

Arabella stepped from behind the king's throne and glared at Perrington. 

"On the grounds that I myself, as well as His Highness the Crown Prince Dorian, his mistress the Lady Gordaina, and Sir Chaol Westfall, the prince's bodyguard, have all heard you confess to the deed," she snapped. "That is more than enough proof." 

"Lady Trelliser is right," the king agreed, smiling as he looked fondly at Arabella. They were not even married, but already Arabella was shaping up to be a wonderful queen. "That is indeed all the evidence we need." 

"Was that all the evidence you needed to banish my wife from court as well?" Perrington roared. "Like the petty bully and coward that you are!" 

The crowd of assembled nobles gasped. 

How..._dare_ Perrington insult him like that? The nerve!

"Silence, worm!" Arabella snapped. "You do not speak to His Majesty like that!" 

"Indeed," the king agreed, banging the end of his scepter against the floor of the dais. "And taking that into account, I have decided your fate, Duke of Morath." 

Damn Perrington. Damn him to hell. Who cared if Prince Dorian was suddenly more intelligent than usual? King Dorian Havilliard I, Emperor of Erilea, did not tolerate such blatant disloyalty.

"From this moment forward," the king announced, "Oswald Perrington, you are stripped of your lands, title, and position. Your precious Henrietta is likewise stripped of her titles, both royal _and_ ducal. Three days from now, you, Oswald Perrington, will be executed at noon on the dot."

"This is absurd!" Perrington cried. "You can't run the empire without me! You haven't touched any official documents in _years_! And what do you plan on doing with the wyvern army?!" 

The jaws of everyone in the room dropped. 

"Wyvern army?" Arabella cried. "What wyvern army?" 

"The army of wyverns ridden by witches that your precious king plans to use to crush the rebels in Eyllwe, of course!" Perrington snapped. "_That_ wyvern army!" 

Well, there was a reason to get rid of the bastard if ever there was one! Revealing state secrets the _minute_ things didn't go his way! 

Arabella whirled on the former duke. 

"You spout nonsense," she hissed. "Utter nonsense." 

Arabella then leaned on the throne, stroke the king's hair, and said sweetly, 

"Your Majesty, he ought to be punished extra for spouting such nonsense!" 

The king smiled. 

"What do you have in mind, love?" 

"Henrietta ought to accompany him to the execution block," Arabella suggested. "Let the lovebirds have their heads chopped off together!" 

A look of utter horror and pain spread across Perrington's face. 

"NO!!" he cried. "Please, Your Majesty, I beg you! I implore you- do whatever you want to me, but don't hurt Henrietta!" 

The king banged his scepter on the floor. 

"It is done," he announced. "Three days from now, Henrietta Perrington is sentenced to be executed alongside you."

Great Goddess, but it was good to be the king. 

* * *

* * *

"This is not good," Nehemia snapped as she paced about her chambers. "Not good at all." 

"What? _Why_?" Aelin asked. "Perrington is-was the key pillar holding the whole damn thing together! Everyone at court agrees, the king would lost without him!" 

Will _be lost without him_, Aelin thought to herself. _And with that, and the recent victories the rebels have been having in Eyllwe, I can finally make my move_. 

"Because I needed Perrington to assassinate the king!" Nehemia cried. 

Aelin's eyes widened. 

"_What_?" 

Nehemia sighed. 

"In my time at my court, Prince Dorian has let slip that he would be more lenient in negotiations with my people," she explained. "Regardless of whether we win or lose. But the king...even if we win, he will not give us _half_ of what we want. So obviously, for Eyllwe's future, I need Prince Dorian on the throne, and soon. But the king's death can't be at the hands of the rebels, or else Dorian's stance on us might change." 

Nehemia sunk into a plush chair near her bed. 

"Thus I hoped that I could antagonize the Duke-sorry, Perrington- into assassinating the king publicly. That was what I hoped to use Arobynn's cooperation for-I hoped that Perrington would contact Arobynn to do the deed, who, in turn, would make sure all evidence pointed to Perrington. That way, Dorian could ascend with no hard feelings towards the rebels." 

"That's...brilliant," Aelin breathed, utterly amazed at the depths of Nehemia's genius. "So...brilliant."

"No, it's not," Nehemia groaned. "I misjudged Perrington. I assumed he would take longer to turn against the king. Worse, I misjudged Dorian. I mean...I never, not once, fell for his hedonistic womanizer act, but...I never foresaw him being so ruthless or so clever as to team up with Lady Trelliser to prevent the Duke from framing him." 

Nehemia hung her head sadly, tears flowing from her eyes. 

"And worst of all, I misjudged the king. I assumed that as evil as he is, as hell-bent on conquering Erilea as he is-that he only had a mortal army to fight with. I was counting on it. But no. He may or may not have an army of wyverns ridden by witches coming for my people. I don't know. How am I supposed to help my brother fight against witches?" 

Aelin snorted. 

"The king does _not_ have an army of witches riding wyverns, Your Highness." 

Nehemia turned to Aelin. 

"How do you know that?" 

"Because if the king was able to have an army of witches riding wyverns, Aelin would also have her fire magic. Which she _doesn't, _because magic disappeared years ago_." _

* * *

* * *

"Great Goddess," Dorian cried as he knelt in front of the altar in the chapel. "Please forgive me for my sins that I have committed this day. Forgive me my short-sightedness, my selfishness. Forgive me for the sins that have sent an innocent woman to the grave." 

Behind him, he could hear Chaol cough. 

"Technically, it was Lady Trelliser who suggested executing the Duchess Perrington, and your father who made good on it," Chaol pointed out. 

After a hasty amen, Dorian got up and turned towards Chaol. 

"Yes, but it was _I_ who gave Lady Trelliser the knowledge of Duke Perrington's crimes in the first place," he pointed out. "Which in turn, empowered Lady Trelliser and my father to send the duchess to her doom."

"You cannot control that harpy's actions," Chaol protested. "And you certainly can't control His Majesty's." 

"No, but I certainly should have been able to _predict_ them!" Dorian countered. "I know my stepmother. I know what kind of woman she is. I know what kind of man my father is. I should have predicted what they'd do to the duchess. At the _very_ least, I should have known that an alliance with my stepmother, no matter how temporary, would be a _mistake_. That it would have _consequences_. _Devastating_ consequences." 

"Well..." Chaol said slowly, unsure of how to reassure his prince. "The duchess must be at least a quarter of the way to Morath by now. It will take some time for His Majesty's men to locate her. I doubt they will able to come back with her in three days; the execution will have to be delayed to account for travel." 

"That's no comfort," Dorian muttered. "They're _still_ going to execute her. We have to do something-and quick." 

* * *

* * *

"Here, here ye," the official announced as the competitors were about to go to bed. "Oswald Perrington has officially been stripped of his title and lands, and is set to be executed, alongside his wife, three days hence." 

"What?" cried one of the competitors, a small, thin man from Melisande. "But he was only charged yesterday! How could the king have reached a decision so quickly?" 

Rather than answer, the official simply continued, 

"Thus the tournament will briefly resume tomorrow. However, owing to the...limited pool of contestants," 

The official gazed at the seven competitors still remaining in the barracks. Since the tournament had not been postponed until after the duke had been charged, the day following Philip Corden's death had followed a typical three-match schedule, further narrowing the eleven remaining champions down to eight. That was, _if_ you included the infamous Celaena Sardothien, of course. Which Asterin had long since ceased to do, since Celaena had yet to appear in either the barracks or the arena following her match with Cain.

"There will only be two matches, rather than three," the official finished. "To make sure there are enough contestants to fight for the celebratory match after the duke's execution."

With that, the official left, the candles were blown out, and most of the competitors went to sleep. Most of the competitors, of course, save Asterin, who snuck out to the training area, grabbed a polearm, and immediately began venting her frustrations on a target dummy. 

It had only been seven days, and yet Asterin was closer to her goal than she'd ever anticipated. And yet...she was unbelievably far away from it, too. 

Because all this time, Asterin realized, she had been operating under the illusion that this tournament's main purpose was to find the king a Royal Assassin. The public entertainment part, she'd assumed, was merely a side benefit. But the official's words: his insistence on there being "enough contestants" for a "celebratory match" had completely shattered that illusion.

Whatever the purpose of the collar-and-breeding program, whatever the reason he and the Duke had forced the witches into training with wyverns- it was not the king's primary goal. Otherwise, he never would have sentenced the man in charge of it to death over...whatever the Duke had been charged with. No, the king's motives were exactly like that of the public; he primarily wanted to indulge in debauchery, only on a much grander scale than most could afford. The horrors he performed on Asterin's people...they were done solely to support the king's perverse pleasures, and nothing else. 

And thus, all this time she'd been fighting in the tournament, it had been nothing but a waste of time. A dance done by a puppet to amuse those who neither knew nor cared about her people's plight. 

It was time for a change of plans. 

* * *

* * *

"What do you _mean_ I'm the new Duchess of Morath?" Lady Morgana Perrington screamed at the nervous messenger who knelt before her. "My father is hale and hearty, there is no reason for-." 

"Pardon me, Your Grace," the nervous man said. "But your father has been sentenced to death by beheading three days hence." 

"WHAT?!!" Morgana cried. "But that's impossible! He's the king's right-hand man, he would never-" 

"He was convicted of assassinating Lady Trelliser's champion for petty revenge," the messenger told her. "And thus he, and your mother, were sentenced to be executed by the king." 

Morgana's dark brown eyes widened in horror. 

"My...mother?" she gasped. "But...what did _she_ do?" 

The messenger shook his head. 

"I do not know, Your Grace," he said. "I only know what I was told to tell you. Please, forgive me for any-" 

Morgana sighed. 

"I forgive you," she said, slumping into her father's chair in exhaustion. "You are dismissed." 

The messenger got up, hastily bowed to her, and then hurriedly exited the room. 

The..._Duchess of Morath_. Morgana was the gods-damned _Duchess. Of. Morath_. And at the ripe-old age of twenty-three, no less. 

And what was worse, her mother-her sweet, pure, wonderful mother-was about to be executed. For...what appeared to be _no reason at all_. This, despite being the king's _first cousin_, as well as the wife of one of the most powerful men in the country.

Or maybe her father wasn't as powerful as Morgana had thought, considering how easily the king had decided to get rid of him. Had decided to execute the duke the day after his less favored son had brought charges against him. This despite the fact that, thanks to the king's laziness, her father had been responsible for running most of the kingdom's day-to-day affairs. 

Oh, sweet Lumas. It was not going to be easy, managing both Morath and running the kingdom in her father's place. And such a capricious king in charge, to boot! How had her father stood it? 


	11. Prison Break

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Morgana visits her father in prison. Aelin and Nehemia discuss Morgana Perrington's arrival.  
Dorian panics and plots to free the Duke. Asterin has the same idea.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> 1) Yes, I forgot to foreshadow Dorian's magic. Sue me.  
2) Dorian takes full responsibility for his actions in this house.  
3) I have decided that not all the collars contain Valg Princes, which I expect will assure you Manon fans out there. Namely because there aren't enough Valg Princes to possess the entire witch population. So some of the collars contain lesser demons.

"Morgana?!" Perrington gasped as his daughter walked up towards his cell. "What are you doing here?" 

"I'm here to see you, of course," Morgana replied, her obsidian eyes wide with worry. "Why else would I be here?" 

Perrington shook his head. 

"You shouldn't have come, Morgana," he said. "I'm a convicted criminal. Just being seen with me could create ill rumors-" 

"To _hell_ with ill rumors!" Morgana cried. "You and mother are about to _die_, I've been officially instated as the Duchess of Morath, and the king expects me to take over your paperwork as if nothing's happened!"

Perrington laughed harshly. 

"Yep, that sounds like the king alright," he mused. 

_Head so far up his own ass he can't even allow Morgana time to grieve? That's the king, alright_, he thought to himself. _The king I dedicated my_ life _to serving. Like an idiot._

"I can't do this," Morgana said, hyperventilating as she did. "I just...I can't do it." 

Perrington reached out towards his daughter and grasped her soft hand firmly in his hand. 

"You can," he assured her. "You can, sweetheart. I know you can. You're my daughter, and I believe in you." 

Tears stung Morgana's eyes. 

"Oh, Father," she said, trying not sob. "I'm going to miss you so much." 

Morgana let go of Perrington's hand, wiped her eyes, and vowed, 

"I promise you, I _will_ avenge you. I will make Prince Dorian and that Trelliser _pay_ for what-" 

"No, Morgana! " Perrington cried. "Don't-don't get entangled with the prince and the king's mistress. They are the _reason_ I am here in the first place-" 

"I know," Morgana seethed, glowering at the floor in rage. "And that's why they need to pay for what they did." 

"_No_! Revenge is _not_ the answer, Morgana!" 

Perrington took Morgana's hand again, and said, 

"_Trust_ me. Revenge is the reason I am here."

"No, you're here because you've been falsely accused-"

"No, I _wasn't_," Perrington insisted. "Everything they charged me with, it's _true_. I did indeed hire Arobynn Hamel to assassinate Lady Trelliser's champion." 

Morgana withdrew her hand, her eyes widening in horror as she took a step back from the cell door. 

"But..._why_?" 

Perrington sighed. 

"Because I mistakenly assumed Lady Trelliser had assassinated mine," he explained. "It was a petty decision made in the heat of the moment-unwise, ill-thought-out, and ripe to be exploited by anyone with half a brain." 

And Perrington cursed himself for not realizing that sooner. 

"Mistakenly?" Morgana cried. "How do you know you were mistaken?" 

"Because Lady Trelliser didn't even know which champion was _mine_," Perrington said with a sigh. "She paid so little attention to the tournament, she had my champion confused with Lord Roland's. I overestimated her, and underestimated Prince Dorian." 

"_Underestimated_?" Morgana scoffed. "It sounds to me like exactly the kind of underhanded move you've suspected him of making." 

"Yes," Perrington groaned, "I was always the _one_ person at court who never bought the Crown Prince's drunk hedonist act. And look what good it did me! I knew he was intelligent, but I failed to predict that with the way I'd been antagonizing him, how I'd been trying to get the king to watch out for him, that Prince Dorian would see my poorly-thought petty revenge as part of a ploy to get rid of him. And that he would do whatever it took to thwart me." 

Perrington looked his daughter square in the eye. 

"Promise me, Morgana," he begged. "Promise me that you will not make the same mistakes I did. Do _not_, whatever you do, antagonize the Crown Prince. Of all the royals, he is the one you _least_ want to make your enemy."

"They're all nothing but a pit of vipers, as far as I'm concerned," Morgana spat. 

Perrington chuckled. 

"That they are, but the Crown Prince is the deadliest one by far," he told her. "He is something that Lady Trelliser and Prince Hollin could never in a million years be, that his father hasn't been for _decades_. He is _cunning_. And ruthless. Oh yes."

Perrington took a deep breath in.

"Oh, on the outside, he _appears_ to be less sadistic than Hollin, than his father," he said. "He loudly disdains their taste for blood at every turn. But Hollin is merely vicious, too impulsive to be a true schemer. Prince Dorian, on the other hand...he is clever, and has a long memory for slights. And if you antagonize him, he will _end_ you." 

Perrington smiled. 

"He reminds me of His Majesty, when His Majesty was younger and...less _distracted_ by debauchery. Only, His Majesty never had the common folk's slavish devotion the way Prince Dorian does." 

The guard glowered at Perrington.

"You have three seconds left," he snapped.

Perrington glanced at the guard, and back to Morgana.

"Promise me, Morgana. Promise me that you will not antagonize the Crown Prince," he pleaded. 

"I..._promise_, Father." 

Perrington smiled. 

"Good," he said. "Now, go, my child. It will not do to antagonize the king either." 

Morgana turned on her heel and walked, her dark curls flowing behind her as she did. The new Duchess of Morath shot her father one last worried glance before allowing the guards to escort her out of the dungeon. 

* * *

* * *

_Perhaps all is not as lost as I'd thought_, Nehemia thought as she sipped tea with Celaena in the assassin's chambers. 

"What do you think of the new Duchess of Morath?" she asked her co-conspirator. "Just curious." 

Celaena grinned evilly. 

"Oh, she is _completely_ unprepared for life at court," Celaena replied. "Did you _see_ her shivering before the king this morning?" 

"Yes," Nehemia said with a grin. "Yes, I did." 

Although 'shivering' was in fact far too polite a word to describe the way Her Grace the Duchess Morgana Perrington of Morath had introduced herself to the king. She'd wobbled while curtsying, almost toppling over in the process. Her pale little face had been a mask of fear and nervousness the whole time, and her voice had been feeble and timid the few time she'd _dared_ to speak. 

The new Duchess had to be only a few years older than Nehemia at _most_-Nehemia herself only being nineteen-and it was plain to see that the Duchess was as inexperienced as she was young, and completely green as to the ways of the court.

After all, she still wore her dark curls long and flowing, when the fashion at court for _ages_ had been elaborate updos pinned to towering heights, augmented with pads and rollers. And the width of her skirts was much narrower than was fashionable-the Duchess was _clearly_ not wearing side hoops underneath her gown. 

"The King has sent away his prize guard dog and replaced him with a _puppy_," Celaena quipped. "A newborn puppy." 

Nehemia laughed. 

"That he has," she agreed. "That he has. What do you think? Should I offer my friendship and support to the Duchess?" 

Celaena chuckled. 

"You have _plans_, don't you?" 

Nehemia grinned mischievously. 

"Of course I do." 

* * *

* * *

"This is not good," Dorian cried as he paced his bedroom floor. "Not good at all. Things have just gone from bad to worse." 

Chaol raised an eyebrow. 

"The last time you said that, Your Highness," he pointed out. "It was right before the Duke was arrested. Should I watch out for that phrase in the future?" 

Dorian took a deep breath in and sighed. 

"You're right, Chaol," he said as he flopped down on his bed. "This is a mess of my own making. If the Duchess of Morath now seeks revenge for the soon-to-be deaths of her parents, it is entirely my own fault. My own selfish need for self-preservation led us to this course, and I doubt it will make things better." 

As far as Chaol was concerned, Dorian was lucky that the former Duke hadn't _really_ been planning to frame him for the deed. That it was a petty act of revenge and not part of a more elaborate plan. And also, the former Duke _completely_ deserved what he got. 

Henrietta was innocent, of that there was no doubt, but the _Duke_? He was the exact _opposite_ of innocent. Especially if that wyvern army really _did_ exist. Most at court might not believe that wyverns and witches still existed, but Chaol knew better. He'd _seen_ wyverns, flying over Anielle when he was a boy. They were deadly creatures when _not_ tamed, and if the duke had somehow managed to wrangle enough of them to make up a flying army...gods help them all. 

Dorian's "selfish need for self-preservation" had thus probably saved the kingdom-and all of Erilea- from a very real and credible threat. And besides-without the Duke spilling poisonous words about Dorian into the king's ear, they could all breathe a little easier at night. 

"What do you plan on doing then, Your Highness?" Chaol asked. "About Morgana, then?" 

* * *

* * *

That...was a _good_ question. One for which Dorian did not have an answer. 

Leaving the new Duchess of Morath to her own devices was obviously the wrong choice. Dorian was directly responsible for the soon-to-be executions of Morgana's parents, and she knew that. _Everyone_ at court knew that. If Morgana _wasn't_ planning to take revenge, Dorian was the long lost Aelin Ashryver Galathynius. 

But if Dorian moved to eliminate her, before Morgana had even played her hand...he'd be doing the _exact_ same thing that landed him in this mess in the first place. He'd be just like Perrington; seeing schemes that weren't there, and destroying people's lives in the process of trying to thwart to them.

He could not let Morgana be, but nor could he move against her. It was a tricky situation indeed. 

"We rescue the duke," Dorian told Chaol, as he poured a goblet of wine and set it on his desk. "We sneak him out of the capital, and tell him to warn his wife and flee with her, if he can."

Chaol's jaw dropped. 

"WHAT?!!" he roared. "Are you out of your mind?!" 

"It's the only way," Dorian insisted, pouring a second glass of wine. "If Henrietta and the Duke are executed, Morgana will come after me _for sure_. If he survives, on the other hand..."

"But if it gets out that you freed him, it will be your head the king demands next!" Chaol pointed out. 

"It won't get out," Dorian assured him, as he offered Chaol a goblet. "We'll blame it on the rebels.Those...those Order of the Wildfire folks who freed those slaves a few days ago." 

"The...Order of the Wildfire?" Chaol cried. "But why would they want the Duke freed?" 

"Who else am I going to blame it on?" Dorian countered. "I can't blame it on the pro-me conspiracy, can I? Regardless of how nonexistent the ties between me and..._them_ are, to my father it'd be the same as if I did it. And blaming on it Morgana kind of defeats the purpose, don't you think? " 

"The...purpose?" 

"If the Duke is freed, than Morgana has no reason to seek revenge," Dorian explained. "But if I blame it on her, I effectively brand her a criminal. Which...is another reason she could come after me. No. It _has_ to be the rebels. The Order of the Wildfire may not have a _logical_ reason for freeing Perrington, but they're the only people who can publicly take the fall with minimal harm to everyone."

"But if Morgana thinks the rebels did it," Chaol said, "Why would that change her opinion of you at all?" 

"Because while the _public_ will blame the rebels, _we_ will privately inform her who really did it," Dorian explained. "And when the new Duchess learns what we did, she might think twice about coming after us." 

"Alright...that's a...good enough plan," Chaol conceded. "But...how are we planning to free him, exactly?" 

Dorian stared at the iron ring on his right hand. How long had it been since he'd first put it on? It had to be nine years, at least. Yes. Because Terrasen had been conquered when Dorian was nine, and Dorian had been _ten_ when his mother first gave it to him. 

"Wear this at all times," she'd said that fateful day in the garden, "And no one will ever know about your abilities. Least of all your father."

"But why can't we just tell him?" Dorian had asked, looking nervously at the beautiful blooming rosebush to the left of him. A rosebush he had accidentally revived in the middle of autumn with his magic. "Surely if he finds out I'm magical, he'll change his mind-" 

Queen Georgiana Havilliard, born Georgiana Perrington, shook her head. 

"He's _already_ afraid of you," she'd said. "You are but ten, and _already_ people want to kill your father so you can ascend the throne. If he found out that you had magic on _top_ of that...I fear your days would be numbered, my darling." 

Dorian had only been ten, but already he'd been unable to argue with that logic. The first assassination attempt on the king's life by pro-Dorian supporters had happened only a year prior, after all. So he'd taken the ring without complaint, and worn it faithfully for the last nine years of his life. 

But in this endeavor...the aid of magic could only be beneficial. 

Dorian slid the ring off his finger and put it in his pocket. Immediately afterward, he felt the familiar electric thrill of magic at his fingertips, a feeling he hadn't had in nine years. 

"I have a plan," Dorian assured Chaol. 

* * *

* * *

"Who are you?" Asterin gasped as she stared at the mysterious, hooded young man in the dungeon. "And what are you doing here?" 

The young man simply stared at her with wide, sapphire blue eyes. 

"I could ask you the _same_," he replied. 

"I'm here to free him," Asterin said tersely, jerking her head towards the duke's cell to indicate who she meant. "What are _you_ doing here?" 

"I'm here to free him too," the young man said, throwing his hands up. "What a coincidence! And why, pray tell, is his freedom so important to you?" 

Asterin snapped out her iron teeth and nails-an action, which, after having to conceal them for so long, felt _wonderful_. 

"I need him to tell me the secret of how to free my people," Asterin explained. 

The young man stepped back, clearly terrified by the sight of her nails and teeth. Sparks gathered at the fingertips of his right hand. 

"You're...you're a _witch_," the young man gasped. "An..._Ironteeth_ witch!" 

Asterin nodded. 

"Yep. And that slime-ball in there imprisoned my people and put these collars around their necks that caused them to be possessed," Asterin told him. "Possessed by foul, horrible creatures which take over the body and treat it like a puppet, imprisoning the victim in their own mind. And I need him to tell me how to take the collars off. Which I can't do if he dies." 

Asterin brandished her iron nails and snapped, 

"What do you need him for?" 

"I...let's just say his daughter will kill me if I don't," the young man snapped. 

From his cell, the Duke gasped in horror. 

"Morgana..._conspired_ with you to free me? But...Your Highness, I-" 

Asterin's jaw dropped. Taking a step back in surprise, she exclaimed:

"Wait...you're..._royalty_?!" 

Duke Perrington laughed sharply. 

"Not just any royalty, witch. You are speaking to the _Crown Prince_ himself."

Asterin's eyes widened. 

"Wait...no...that can't be!" 

"Well, cat's out of the bag," the young man said with a sigh as he threw back his hood, revealing his face in full. "Prince Dorian Havilliard, at your service." 

"But..._you're_ the one who _put_ him here!" Asterin cried. "_Why_ would you want to free him?" 

"To prevent his daughter from taking on revenge on me," Prince Dorian explained. "And also so he can hopefully warn and/or rescue his wife." 

The Duke smiled ruefully. 

"Don't want an innocent woman's blood on your hands, do you?" he mused. "I figured you wouldn't." 

Asterin's brow furrowed in confusion. 

"Innocent...woman? What are you talking about?" 

The duke snorted. 

"What? You didn't _know_, witch? They sentenced my wife, the Duchess Henrietta, to be executed alongside me. Who, by the way, is completely innocent." 

The duke glanced at Prince Dorian, and then at Asterin. 

"It seems you two are at an impasse," he continued. "The prince, of course, wants me free so that he can appease his conscience. Which requires me to live. But you..." 

The duke looked Asterin square in the eye. 

"I suspect you'll slit my throat the minute you know the secret of the Wyrdstone collars."

Asterin thought of Manon, struggling desperately to retain control, to not let the demon inside her take over, and how the battle completely wrecked her sanity. She thought of the poor Blackbeak Matron, who lay on her deathbed because of the duke. 

"You are absolutely correct in that, Your Grace," Asterin hissed. 

"I thought so," the duke mused. "So what I propose is this: you release me, and then the witch and I will go off in search of my wife."

Before Asterin could protest, the duke turned to her and explained,

"Once we've found Henrietta and ensured her safety, I will tell you everything you need to know about the collars, and how to release your friends from them." 

The duke gave a quick glance to each of them. 

"Is that an acceptable for you both?" 

The prince shrugged. 

"It's good enough for me," he said. The prince then turned to Asterin and asked, 

"What about you?" 

"I suppose it will have to do," Asterin grunted. While she disliked the delay-as well as the prioritization of the duke's family over hers- the idea of having complete control of the duke at all had a certain appeal. 

"Excellent," the duke declared. "Now, the second problem: who is going to take the blame for this?" 

Asterin's eyes widened. 

"The..._blame_?" she said. 

"Yes, witch, the _blame_," the duke scoffed. "I'm a criminal. Freeing me is a crime. We need to frame someone else for this so as to drive suspicion away from us. So, who is it? Who's the patsy?" 

"Uh..." Asterin stammered, realizing just how little she'd planned ahead. And also, that a contestant in the tournament vanishing alongside the duke in the same night would look rather suspicious in the morning. 

The duke rolled his eyes in exasperation. 

"Don't tell me you came all this way but don't have a plan to cover your tracks!" 

"Relax, Perrington," Prince Dorian said as he took out a green square of cloth from within his cloak and dropped it on the ground. "I came prepared." 

Asterin and the duke glanced down at the cloth, which had a silver stag's head encircled in a ring of thorns embroidered on it.

"The Order of the Wildfire," the duke murmured. "Interesting choice. Rather illogical, in my opinion. But it will do. Now, unlock the door. I have no idea how long the prince's sleeping spell will hold. " 

Asterin and the prince both froze.

_This was the_ prince's _work?_ Asterin thought as she stared at the sleeping guards. _With_ magic? _But...how? _

"You...you knew?" Dorian gasped. 

"I _suspected_," the Duke scoffed, "That magic was in play when all of the guards suddenly feel asleep at the drop of a hat. And since I was there when your father sealed away all magic save for that which belonged to his bloodline...the appropriate conclusions weren't hard to draw, especially when you walked in." 

"My...father is responsible for-" 

"That is a lengthy discussion we should save for another day," the Duke snapped. "Now, release me from this prison so that the witch and I may begin our search for my wife." 

The prince nodded, and then hurried unlocked the door to the Duke's cell. The Duke immediately walked out, walked up to Asterin and said, 

"Now, let's get out here." 


	12. Death of a Marriage

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Aelin finds out she's been framed for the Duke's prison break. She incorrectly guesses that Morgana is behind it. However, rather than go after Morgana, she decides to take credit for Perrington's escape. Morgana starts thinking about betraying King Dorian I, unprompted.
> 
> Perrington and Asterin find Henrietta. Henrietta is NOT pleased to discover what happened at court, or what her husband's been up to.

"I want to know _which _ of you idiots broke Perrington out of prison?" Aelin roared at the assembled members of the Order of the Wildfire as they stood in a single line in Nehemia's secret meeting room underneath the library. 

When she'd heard about this fresh idiocy, she'd had no choice but to call an impromptu meeting to find the hooligans responsible before the joint meeting with Nehemia's group tonight. 

"Lady Sardothien, I...I have no idea what you're talking about," Ren stammered. 

Aelin had decided that since Nehemia, and thus, by extension, her supporters, knew about her assassin identity, the rest of the Order should know, too. Clearly that had been a mistake, owing to the not-so-subtle prison break these idiots had staged. 

"Don't play dumb with me," Aelin snapped, pacing back and forth in front of them. "The king's soldiers found a piece of cloth with the Galathynius crest outside the Duke's cell last night. One of you put it there, while you were rescuing the duke _without_ my sanction." 

"Well, it wasn't _me_," Murtaugh scoffed, "The Duke's men were the ones who took my grandson away from me in the _first place_. I, personally, was looking forward to watching him die." 

"Same here," Ren agreed, "And for the same reason." 

Aelin had to admit, that was a very good reason for not freeing the duke. But if Ren didn't do it, and Murtaugh didnt' do it, and Aelin certainly didn't do it, that left...Ravi and Arobynn. 

Aelin whirled towards the woman and demanded, 

"Well, Ravi, was it _you_, then? Because I _know_ it wasn't me." 

Ravi shook her head. 

"No. I was out recruiting last night." 

"Recruiting," Aelin repeated flatly. "_Really_?"

Hopefully it was a lie, because Arobynn and these three were already enough of a handful. 

"Yes, and I actually have two new recruits for you," Ravi replied. 

"That she does," Arobynn confirmed, "I saw her in the tavern last night. Her little speech to them was very impressive." 

Aelin turned towards Arobynn, and raised an eyebrow. 

"Well, that confirms Ravi's alibi," she said. "But not yours. Did you put one of your little henchmen up to this, Lord Hamel?" 

"No," Arobynn replied coolly, staring right back into Aelin's angry gaze. "And frankly, my dear, it speaks less of you that you would even _assume_ I did. Or not to notice that you are obviously being set up." 

"Don't you dare talk to Lady Sardothien in that manner!" Ren snapped. "She is Aelin's most trusted lieutenant." 

"No, he's right," Aelin realized, horrified. Because Arobynn didn't really have a motive to do so either; without his money, title, or position, Perrington could not give Arobynn any new contracts, thus making him useless to the assassin lord. And besides, the king already knew the Duke had hired one of Arobynn's people to take his ill-thought-out revenge; it was not in Arobynn's best interest to entangle himself further with the duke's fortunes by rescuing him. And Arobynn never did anything that wasn't in his best interest. 

"It's very likely that we _have_ been set up," she continued. "The question is, by who?" 

Not Nehemia, obviously. She still wanted Arobynn's might behind her. One of the king's allies, looking to put them on the king's hit list? It was possible. Perhaps someone close to the king, who knew that the duke was instrumental to the king's rule, had rescued him and framed the Order to avoid getting caught. 

Unlikely. Even the most avid of the king's supporters amongst the nobility knew that it would be folly to try reinstate Perrington by means of a prison break. More likely, they'd try and beseech the king on the former duke's behalf. Which, in and of itself, was a risky move; anyone showing sympathy for Perrington these days was likely to lose favor in the king's eyes. No, the smartest thing for any of the king's supporters who didn't think Morgana was up to the task to do was to try and take her position for themselves. 

Dorian? He was a good enough person, one who might feel bad about how the Duchess had inadvertently been sentenced to die for no reason. Except that it was _his scheme_ that had caused the duke's downfall in the first place. One which had been much of a surprise to Aelin as it had to Perrington and Lady Trelliser themselves. While letting the duke go to search for his wife might help to assuage the prince's guilty conscience, the prince did not benefit from the Duke being alive in any tangible way. Especially since with the duke gone, there was nobody left to whisper accusations about the Crown Prince's secret plans in the king's ear. 

For a man who had been so powerful, there was an astonishing lack of people who could plausibly want to help him in this time. Even his own family was-

Wait. What about the Duchess Morgana Perrington? Yes. It was very likely her. After all, she was his daughter. And she was likely not too pleased with the fact that the king had sentenced her parents to death. It was a very strong motive, too strong a motive to be dismissed. 

And if it was indeed Morgana who had framed the Order...than Morgana was both craftier and stupider than Aelin had thought. Craftier, because framing the Order for her actions showed she was not entirely green to the ways of palace intrigue. And _stupider_, because it showed that her ambitions did not stretch that far. That, unlike many at court, the new duchess did not think in terms of strategic alliances or cutting people who served no purpose loose. That she was incapable of realizing what having her father in disgrace, and on the run, could do to her position at court. 

Meaning she was prime prey for Nehemia. And even more so if her secret never got out. 

Aelin grinned and said, 

"Never mind that. New strategy; we take full credit, _publicly_, for Perrington's escape." 

"What? Why?" Ren demanded. 

"Well, _publicly_, it's because he was one of our own," Aelin explained, the beginnings of a deliciously wicked plan forming in her mind. "Because he was secretly funneling funds and information to us." 

"Thus branding him a traitor on _top_ of being a murderer," Arobynn added, smiling evilly. "Further tainting the poor new duchess's name." 

"And putting her in debt to us, potentially," Murtaugh breathed. "IF she's the one who set us up. Gods, that's brilliant." 

"That, and it will make the king paranoid over which advisors to trust," Aelin added. 

That, and add a Terrasenite rebellion to his list of worries. A rebellion, which handily came at a time when Eyllwe might not stay part of his empire for long. Maybe having the Order of the Wildfire around wasn't so bad, if the mere knowledge of their existence made the king more miserable before his death. 

Yes, let him fret over a fake Aelin with her fake plans. Let him worry over nothing while the real Aelin waited patiently for the perfect moment to strike. 

* * *

* * *

"I suppose you must be happy to know that your father is free," Nehemia said as she walked with Morgana, arm in arm, through the palace gardens.

"Yes," Morgana acknowledged. "I suppose I have Aelin Ashryver Galathynius to thank for that." 

She knew full well that she didn't, of course. A missive addressed to her, delivered by the Crown Prince's bodyguard, had told Morgana everything. That it was Prince Dorian who had broken her father out of prison, and that the rebels were but a scapegoat. Why the mysterious Order of the Wildfire had taken _credit_ for the deed was beyond her, but it was comforting to know that they were lying. 

"Although, I imagine you are not so happy to find out that he was a traitor," Nehemia continued, an understanding look on her face. "Though, for what it's worth, I don't believe you had any part in your father's treason." 

Yes. That was the other part. The Order of the Wildfire had claimed that Morgana's father was working for them. An obvious lie, but the king had eaten it up the way a little girl ate up bonbons; he swallowed it wholesale, without even stopping to think about things first. 

"Thank you," Morgana sighed, and meant it. "I really appreciate knowing that _someone_ at this court, at least, has some common sense." 

"But of course," Nehemia replied sweetly. "Anyone with half a brain could see that you'd never betray your king like that." 

Never was a strong word. A bit too strong to describe Morgana's loyalties as of late. Yes, she'd promised her father she wouldn't antagonize Prince Dorian-and since he had helped her father escape, Morgana was pretty sure she was keeping that promise. But she'd said _nothing_ about plotting revenge against the king.

And would it even be such a disservice to the realm if she _did_? The treasury's coffers were _empty_, thanks to the king's wars and his reckless spending. And not only had the king had not touched an official document in years, he had never heard of _half_ the things he'd stamped his approval on. To say that the king was a negligent, hedonistic ruler was an _understatement_. Morgana had only been his chief minister for _two days_, and already, she was utterly sick of it all. How had her father stood it? 

No, if someone else were to take the ropes, it could _only_ be to the kingdom's benefit. 

Ah well. At least her father's escape had forced the king to put a stop to that _asinine_ tournament of his. At least until the former duke and duchess were caught, that was. 

* * *

* * *

Nehemia didn't know whether to be happy or nervous. For she had, admittedly, misjudged the duchess. She and Celaena both had. 

The Duchess Morgana Perrington was not a shy little girl who would need to be coaxed into revenge. Oh, no. For as green as she was, as completely unprepared for life at court and the demands of being the king's right-hand woman as she was, the Duchess Morgana was far stronger-and more volatile-than Nehemia had expected. 

The duchess' foul mood alone during their whole conversation made Nehemia almost certain the woman was half-plotting revenge on the king already. How much coaxing would Nehemia even have to do exactly? For not even the duke's escape had abated the new duchess's fury at the king for what he'd done to her father. Oh no. 

In fact, the new duchess seemed to barely register that her father was alive. Instead, she'd gone on and on about how terrible a ruler the king was, how much work he expected her to do, 

Nehemia just knew that something dreadful was going to happen to the king, and _soon_. The only question was, would it be with Arobynn's aid, or would it solely be the province of whatever ill-conceived plan Morgana was brewing in her head? 

* * *

* * *

"Well, it's done," Dorian said with a sigh as he flopped down on his bed. "Perrington is free, Morgana knows I'm responsible for it, and the whole world-including my father-thinks the rebels did it. In my opinion, it could not have possibly turned out better." 

Better? Yes, Chaol conceded, they were free in the short term. And doubtless, their lives would be much easier without Perrington around to spew lies into the king's ear. Especially considering how utterly unprepared Morgana clearly was to fill her father's shoes. But in the long term...Dorian's reputation as a hedonistic fool-the one he'd worked so hard to maintain-was completely _shot_. After all, would a hedonistic fool have been capable of pulling off the maneuver that had ended Perrington's career? No. 

Dorian's supporters at court would only grow _more_ ardent-and considering how slavishly devoted they were to Dorian's cause already, that was saying something. To say nothing of all this possibly spawning more Dorian supporters. 

Not to mention, if the king was at _all_ smart, he would eye Dorian with even more suspicion than usual. After all, if Dorian was capable of outwitting a man who had served at court and retained the king's favor for over two decades-and thoroughly wrecking the man's career in the process-that meant Dorian was a very serious threat. Fortunately, the king as of late did not appear to be very smart at all, but still...

But instead of these things, Chaol simply said, 

"You do realize that with the tournament postponed, Celaena won't be able to win the position of Royal Assassin." 

"Yes," Dorian acknowledged, "That is a blow to our side, indeed. But with Perrington gone, who is really there to oppose us anymore? Lady Trelliser, while a _stellar_ gold-digger if ever there was one, does not have the wit for it. Morgana? If Perrington was a wolf, Morgana is a puppy. She can barely deal with my father and the court, let alone plot intrigues. Roland? He doesn't even know we share a father, and even if he did, declaring that to the world would only _strip_ him of status, not enhance it." 

"There's still your rabid supporters," Chaol pointed out. 

Dorian sighed. 

"That's true," he admitted. "But those assassination-happy fools are more of a perennial problem. One which dealing with would require far more devious methods than I am willing to stoop to at present. And I feel I am done with intrigue for now." 

Chaol had the sinking feeling intrigue did not feel the same way about Dorian. 

* * *

* * *

"So..."the former Duchess of Morath began, staring at her husband with a look of utter shock, "If I have this right...you have been outwitted by none other than that drunken fool of a Crown Prince, gotten us stripped of our title, lands, and good name, inadvertently thrust our daughter into a veritable pit of vipers, and have caused us both to become fugitives from the law...all in service to an ill-conceived revenge plan which you only came up because you grossly overestimated the intelligence of His Majesty's mistress." 

Damn, Asterin thought, that was one ridiculous story. Perrington had already informed of her of his downfall, of course, but it had sounded...far more tragic coming from him. But the way Perrington's woman put it, he looked like the world's biggest fool. 

Perrington nodded silently.

"In my defense," he said, "The Crown Prince's drunkenness and womanizing is _clearly_ a front at this point." 

Henrietta glared at him. 

"Oh, so we're blaming your complete and _utter_ idiocy on a man just _barely_ grown now, are we?" she snapped. "Are we just going to forget that this is, in its entirety, a tragedy _entirely_ of your own making? Whether or not the prince is smart has nothing to do with this. He may have successfully caught you, but _you_ were the one who overestimated that bitch's intelligence in the first place. _You_ were the one petty enough to order her champion's assassination. If you had kept a cool head, none of this would be happening!" 

The former duke sighed. 

"You're right," he acknowledged. "It is my fault. I am the one responsible for our family's misfortunes. And for that, I am deeply sorry." 

Asterin raised an eyebrow. 

"I hope you're also sorry about what you did to my people," she snapped. "You know, your other big crime." 

Henrietta laughed bitterly. 

"Oh, that's right," she admitted, continuing to glare at her husband. "You were summoning _demons _and binding them to the bodies of _witches_...who, still exist, apparently. And these...possessed witches...they were supposed to ride an army of _wyverns_ to..conquer the Ellywe rebels! And- Great Goddess above! You were _performing_ this blasphemy in our very own _manor_! _Right_ under my nose!" 

"The king _ordered_ me to," the former duke protested, "We were desperate-are desperate! Great Goddess knows, we're not exactly winning in Eyllwe-" 

"Then you _should_ have made peace with them!" Henrietta admonished. "Not resorted to dark magic! Great Goddess, you should have told the king _no!_ You are his _chief minister_, not some cowering little errand boy! It is your duty to stop the king from being foolish, not aid in his folly!" 

"The king doesn't listen to reason anymore!" the former duke countered. "Aside from me, his council is filled with nothing but yes-men and flatterers who accede to his every demand!" 

Henrietta shook her head. 

"And that makes it okay for you to do the same?" she cried. "I don't know who you are, but the man I married would never have stooped so low, or allowed himself to fall so far." 

"Henrietta, please, I-" 

"Just tell this little minx what she wants so she can kill you already," Henrietta snapped. With that, she got up and started walking towards the door of the abandoned shack they were squatting in. 

Asterin's jaw dropped. She had assumed Perrington's woman would, at the very least, object to her husband's murder. That she would plead and protest for him, begging Asterin to let Perrington live so he could escape to Wendlyn with her. 

"You...don't want to go to Wendlyn with him?" Asterin gasped. 

Henrietta Perrington shook her head. 

"My passage is already booked for one," she said. "And from what I've heard, he'd be more of a burden at this point than an asset. And besides, I have a daughter to think of-a daughter who had as little to do with his crimes as I did-but whose reputation is _already_ stained by his actions." 

The former duke nodded. 

"It's true," he conceded, "Morgana benefits more from my death at this point than she would from my life." 

"Exactly," Henrietta agreed. "With you gone, Morgana can rebuild House Perrington's reputation and wash away the stain you've put upon it. So, please Asterin, kill him. And kill him quickly, before he inadvertantly manages to hurt my little girl more." 

With that, the former duchess Henrietta left the abandoned shack, slamming the door shut behind her, leaving her husband alone with Asterin. 

The former duke then whispered into Asterin's ear what she'd longed to hear all along: the secret of freeing the witches from the collars and rings. Asterin, satisfied with the knowledge, wasted no time in snapping the duke's neck. 


	13. Back to Normal?

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The soldiers find Perrington's body and show it to the king. King Dorian Havilliard I re-opens the tournament. Chaol realizes Celaena may have ulterior motives. Aelin reconsiders her allegiance to Nehemia.  
Arobynn spoon-feeds some information to Chaol. Chaol, in a panic, goes to Nehemia with it. Nehemia starts to suspect that "Celaena" is a much an alias as "Lilian Gordaina" was.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> \- Oh, my poor little Aelin. Are we forced to examine our motives for the first time?  
-Oh, Chaol, you were so stupid to think Nehemia was innocent in this.  
-Yes, I gave Aelin red hair as opposed to blond hair.

"We found him in a warehouse, Your Majesty," the captain said as the soldiers behind him dragged the corpse of Duke Oswald Perrington into the throne room and laid it before the king. "He was already dead by the time we got there." 

Chaol could see Dorian grimacing in disgust in front of him as he and Celaena eyed the bloated body of the former duke. To their left, the Duchess Morgana let out a little shriek of horror. 

The king's lips widened in a broad grin as he folded his hands together. 

"Excellent," he declared. "And...Miss Henrietta Perrington? What about her?" 

The captain shook his head. 

"We did not find her, sir," he explained to the king, "But we did find her wedding ring near the warehouse door." 

Chaol sighed in relief. Dorian's plan had worked, then. Perrington and the witch had managed to contact the former duchess, enabling her to escape. 

A fact which must have been plain to everyone else in the room, because Lady Trelliser, the embodiment of shallowness and frivolity, pouted as the captain handed Henrietta Perrington's ring to His Majesty. 

"So they met up," she whined. "And the little traitor helped her escape. But...why would she toss her ring?" 

A good question, and one everyone else was undoubtedly all asking themselves. Before anyone could answer, however, Celaena giggled and said as she twirled one of her ringlets: 

"Why, I think that would be fairly self-evident, wouldn't you, Lady Trelliser? That Perrington fellow _is_ a traitor after all-if I were her _I_ wouldn't want to be married to someone so disloyal either." 

At that, the Duchess Morgana scowled and snapped,

"My father might have been a traitor, Lady Gordaina, but at least he wasn't a _whore_." 

Everyone assembled in the throne gasped. Chaol simply stared at the duchess, his mouth ajar. 

Had Perrington taught his daughter _nothing_? Blatantly insulting the Crown Prince's mistress like that in front of the entire court-it was nothing short of a recipe for disaster. 

Celaena, much to Chaol's surprise, merely giggled again and said: 

"Well, being a whore is a much more honest profession than being a traitor, don't you think? After all, whores make no pretense of love, whereas feigning love is one of the major tricks of the traitor's trade." 

Celaena then stepped in front of the king, curtsied, and crooned: 

"At any rate, Your Majesty, this is _quite_ a victory for us, don't you think? We ought to celebrate."

The king chuckled.

"Yes, we should," he agreed, "And how do you propose we celebrate?"

"Well," Celaena began, a babyish smile spreading across her face. "Perhaps we ought to re-open the tournament. That would be most grand, don't you think?"

"Oh, yes," Lady Trelliser cried. "Life at court has grown so boring ever since the tournament was postponed." 

Duchess Morgana paled at that suggestion. 

"But Your Majesty! " she exclaimed. "There are only five competitors left! And besides, the royal coffers are not exactly full..." 

Both the king and Lady Trelliser proceeded to glare at Duchess Morgana. Before any of them could say anything, however, Celaena stepped between them, twirled one of her ringlets, and said with a laugh:

"Oh, but there was always going to be a point where there were only five left, Your Grace. That is the nature of these competitions."

Celaena then turned to the king and crooned, 

"Your Highness, the duchess is clearly grieving. Otherwise, she wouldn't say such silly things." 

_Great Goddess!_ Chaol thought to himself. _Celaena's only been at court for little over a week, and already she's become adept at manipulating everyone around her. _

Dorian, seeming to pick up on what Celaena was doing, strode over to the duchess, puffed up with a feigned arrogance, and boasted, 

"Indeed! It is so sad for such a beautiful young flower to lose her father so soon, isn't it?" 

Dorian then leaned over to Morgana and added, in the most overtly flirtatious tone possible, the one Chaol knew Dorian only used when he _didn't_ want a woman to be interested in him: 

"If you would like to discuss your feelings later on, my chambers are _always_ available, Your Grace." 

"Thank you," Morgana replied with a grimace. "But...I wouldn't want to impose."

"Oh, but the presence of a graceful young lady like yourself is never an imposition," Dorian assured her, taking that same tone of fake interest again. 

Celaena then smacked Dorian playfully on the shoulder, her face tight with a jealousy so perfectly mimed that, if Chaol didn't know better, almost looked real. 

"Once again, thank you," Morgana repeated. "But I'm afraid I've already...offended your mistress enough for today." 

Celaena then laughed and said, 

"Oh, no hard feelings, Your Grace. In fact, to show I bear you no ill will-you can go pick out a Champion of your very own with me tommorrow!" 

"I...thank you," Morgana replied. "I...appreciate that sentiment, Lady Gordaina." 

The king laughed and then declared that session of court over. As the courtiers dispersed, Chaol couldn't help but wonder to himself: why had Celaena bothered to help Morgana save face like that? The duchess was an obvious liability to _anyone_, most of all herself. The smartest option for anyone at court was to stand back and let Duchess Morgana destroy herself through her own particular brand of stupidity, grief, and blatant anger with the king. 

So why had Celaena Sardothien, the utterly selfish, purely mercenary assassin _posing_ as Dorian's mistress, risked her life to save the duchess? Her sole purpose in being here was to win the tournament, become the Royal Assassin, and win her freedom. None of that involved the duchess at all; Celaena's goals remained unchanged whether the duchess lived or died. 

Or did they? Celaena's words back in Endovier suddenly ran through Chaol's mind: 

_Is that it? Is my 'freedom' all you have to offer? Then in that case, you can stick your offer where the sun doesn't shine!_

That was _hardly_ the response of a purely mercenary assassin, either. Back in Endovier, Chaol had merely taken it for confinement-induced insanity, but what if it _wasn't_? 

After all, that same supposedly purely mercenary assassin had also very readily agreed to fake being Dorian's mistress-an added task which did not, now that Chaol thought of it, bring a purely selfish assassin any added benefit. Celaena's claims of preferring a luxurious apartment to a barracks filled with criminals aside, wouldn't it be better for a purely mercenary assassin to get closer to her potential rivals? So she could, you know, secretly eliminate a few? But no-Celaena had agreed to fake being Dorian's mistress, a position which placed her in the very heart of the palace, far away from the barracks, making it rather...unnecessarily difficult for her to eliminate any rivals when the matches weren't being called.

And why would an assassin solely bent on attaining her freedom make it _more_ difficult for herself to attain said freedom? Not to mention, Celaena hadn't seemed all that perturbed by the tournament's postponement. Or by the fact that the officials seemed to stop putting her in fights after her first and only match. Behavior which also did not match with that of an assassin with solely selfish concerns. 

Putting it all together, the truth was all to obvious: Celaena Sardothien, or at least, the Celaena Sardothien they had _hired_, was not in the castle solely for the purposes of attaining her freedom. She had another purpose, for being here. But what _sort_ of purpose? What other purpose could Celaena Sardothien _possibly_ have? 

* * *

* * *

"That one over there is Red James," Aelin said with a giggle as she pointed to the pirate standing near the far left bunk. Great Goddess, she hated how she sounded, how uncannily reminiscent of Lady Trelliser her voice could be when she wanted it to. She hated how well she had learned to blend in with these foolish, frivolous court ladies in the past week, practically disappearing into one every time it was necessary to play the role of 'Lady Lilian Gordaina'. 

But it would be worth it if it helped keep this stupid duchess alive-alive long enough to fall for Nehemia's trap and assassinate the king.

Wait, _why_ was she helping Nehemia assassinate the king? As opposed to, you know, doing it herself? After all, wasn't she just here for revenge? Elaborate, bloody revenge? 

Wasn't her sole reason for joining with Nehemia's little group to hurt the king by causing to lose Eyllwe? To help destabilize his reign? And the Order of the Wildfire, at the end of the day, weren't they really just a tool to prove her legitimacy to Nehemia? There was no way she could _actually_ take Terrasen back, could she? Even with Arobynn's money and resources at her command, it was still impossible, wasn't it? 

And Nehemia's plan, by default, only killed the king. Hollin, Lady Trelliser, and Dorian-_especially_ Dorian-were still left alive. Very little actually changed when the king died in her plan-even Eyllwe was still captive. Technically. They were at cross-purposes, Aelin realized. Nehemia wanted to kill the king to free Eyllwe; Aelin wanted to free Eyllwe to destroy and kill the king. 

Clearly, Nehemia had long since stopped being of any benefit to her. All Nehemia's assistance had done, in fact, was over-complicate Aelin's plans, throwing wrench after wrench in them. 

"Where's Celaena?" Morgana asked, jolting Aelin out of her reverie. The duchess, Aelin observed, looked completely disappointed at the crop of available candidates. Not that Aelin blamed her; the three potential champions were all rail-thin and hollow-eyed addicts, who had only survived via pure luck so far. 

"Celaena," Aelin said quickly, "Lives in her own private apartment. She...is special to Dorian; he doesn't want her harmed." 

"I...see," Morgana replied dryly, examining the candidates once more. 

And this ruse itself-this Celaena/Lilian split Aelin had to do, to be all the time-wasn't it exhausting? Wasn't it better to cut her losses now and, you know-actually start killing the royal family? 

_Are you_ really _cutting your losses by betraying the Eyllwe princess now?_ a woman's voice asked Aelin in her mind. _Or are you simply refusing to see the larger picture? _

Aelin blinked, utterly at a loss for how to respond to the voice, or if it all to respond. 

_Damn it, now I'm going crazy_, she thought. 

_No, you are_ not _going crazy_, the woman's voice chided. _I am Mala Fire-Bringer, patron goddess of the Galathynius line, and I would like to speak with you._

_How...how are _you_ in my mind? _Aelin exclaimed inwardly. After all, didn't the gods only speak to the especially pious? Something which Aelin...was most certainly not. 

_ The king's blasphemous Wyrdstone towers might block most magics in Erilea, but I am a goddess_, _and such things are thus trifles to me, _Mala scoffed. _The real question is, why do you think it is a good idea to stab Nehemia in the back at a time like this? _

_Because_, Aelin scoffed. _Terrasen is lost. There is no bringing it back, however much the fools I have somehow gathered to my name want that to be the case._ _I am only here to take revenge, and Nehemia is preventing me from doing so. _

_Is she?_ Mala countered. _Or is she giving you something you didn't realize you had lost? _

_ I..._ Dammit. The might-be goddess had a point. There were..._other_ benefits to hanging around Nehemia. It was..._fun_ plotting to do evil things to their enemies in the garden together. To help her and her rebels chip away at Adarlan's empire bit by bit, to watch the tension at court build as news of Eyllwe victories on the battlefield kept pouring in. 

_Yes, it's nice to have co-conspirators and all_, Aelin admitted, _but all things must come to an end_. 

Aelin felt as if Mala's voice was somehow rolling her eyes.

_ Really? Is Princess Nehemia Ytger_ just _a co-conspirator to you?_ Mala scoffed. _Don't lie to me, child. She's more than that, and you know it. _

Yes. Nehemia was...beautiful. _Amazingly_ beautiful. And smart, and independent, and passionate and... just looking at her made Aelin's stony heart melt. And that heart-melting feeling...it was nice. It was nice to have. 

_What place do I have for love in my life?_ Aelin declared. _After all, the gods keep taking it from me, why should I even bother clinging to it? _

_ Answer this for me, and I will tell you why, _Mala promised. _If Nehemia were to be hurt by what you plan to do...if breaking with her plans backfired, and she were to pay the price for it...would you be able to take it? _

_ No! _Aelin exclaimed inwardly. _No! I could never hurt her! _

_There is your answer, Fireheart,_ Mala replied. And with that, Mala was gone, leaving Aelin alone with the Duchess Morgana and the four other competitors. 

* * *

* * *

"What was Celaena like, before she became your assassin?" Chaol asked Arobynn as they sat together in Arobynn's study in the Assassin's Keep. Of all the people to have a secret meeting with here, the Crown Prince's bodyguard had to be one of the oddest choices possible. And, odder still, the reason he was here was not to discuss a potential contract with Arobynn. Oh, no. The reason Chaol had given him this handy purse of gold, was solely so that Arobynn would spill his guts about his protege. 

"And why do you want to know?" Arobynn asked.

_Why, indeed? And why didn't you do this _before_ you hired her? It seems most negligent of you to do a background check_ now. 

"I realize that she might have ulterior motives," Chaol said. "Motives beyond a simple pardon and a job. Motives which...I need to know about, in case they involve hurting His Highness." 

Arobynn laughed sharply. _Might_ have ulterior motives? Please. The girl was nothing but ulterior motives. Ulterior motives and a stony heart. Arobynn himself had ensured that. 

The only question was, what should he tell Chaol? Not everything, obviously. Arobynn still wanted his lands and title in Terrasen back, of course. But a little, just a little, surely couldn't hurt things. 

"Celaena is my niece," Arobynn replied calmly, taking a sip of wine. "An orphan I took under my protection when her parents died." 

Chaol raised an eyebrow.

"By marriage or by blood?" he asked, apparently seeing how little that tidbit actually revealed. 

Arobynn smiled. 

"Oh, you're not half bad, are you?" 

Arobynn leaned in and stared into Chaol's hazel eyes.

"But then again, you'd have to be, in order to be a closeted homosexual in King Dorian's court," he mused. 

Chaol's face turned white. 

"How...how do you know that?" 

"Clarisse Du Vency is a close personal friend," Arobynn explained with a shrug. "One who likes to gossip about her patrons on occasion. Don't worry. Your secret is safe with me. You're not important enough to blackmail yet." 

Chaol sighed in relief as Arobynn poured him another glass of wine. 

"To answer your question," Arobynn continued. "It's by blood. Her mother was my sister, before she married into House Sardothien." 

Chaol blinked. 

"House Sardothien" 

"Yes. The Sardothiens were a noble house in Terrasen," Arobynn told him. "Before your king had them all slaughtered, that is." 

"And...how would an assassin's sister manage to marry into a noble family?" Chaol murmured. 

Chaol's eyes then alighted onto the green carpet, and then to the statue of the sun stag on the mantelpiece. 

"Unless...the Hamels were _also_ Terrasenite nobility," he realized. 

Arobynn chuckled. 

"Like I said, you're not half-bad, are you?" 

"No," Chaol agreed. "I'm not." 

Chaol stood up and began to leave. 

"Thank you, Lord Hamel," he said, "This has been most informative." 

Arobynn gulped as Chaol left. Dammit! He'd said too much, hadn't he? Not enough, not the whole truth...but if Aelin found out he'd helped one of the king's soldiers link her to Terrasen...he was finished, wasn't he? 

* * *

* * *

Nehemia looked up from her sewing as Chaol Westfall burst into her quarters, wild-eyed and utterly shocked. 

"And what are you doing here in the middle of the night?" she asked querulously, raising an eyebrow. "Are you lost on your way to the privy, perhaps?" 

He probably wasn't, but there were very few explanations for why the Crown Prince's straight-laced bodyguard would be here. 

"I need to tell you something," he panted. "About your friend...Lilian Gordaina." 

"What about her?" Nehemia asked calmly, determined to betray no emotion. "Come. Sit. Tell me all about it." 

Chaol obeyed, wearily sinking into a chair beside her. 

"She...she...her real name is not Lilian Gordaina," he began. "It's...it's Celaena Sardothien. And she's not actually here to be the prince's mistress. He just hired her to pretend she was." 

Nehemia scoffed. 

"She already told me that herself. Why, exactly, are you betraying your prince all of a sudden?" 

"Because...because I'm worried she's taking advantage of Dorian," Chaol admitted. "That she's using him for...to infiltrate the court for...the Order of the Wildfire." 

Nehemia burst out laughing. 

"I knew that too, Sir Westfall," she chided him. "She told me that as well." 

Chaol's eyes widened in horror. 

"How?" he cried. "How do you get her to tell you these things?" 

"And why should I tell you that?" 

A horrid understanding seemed to dawn on Chaol. 

"You're...you're working with her," he exclaimed. "You're working with the Order of the Wildfire." 

Nehemia smirked. 

"Terrasen and Eyllwe have much in common, don't they?" she mused. "Both countries under Adarlan's thumb. Both once proud, free nations. A partnership between them is...only natural." 

"That...is a very vague answer," Chaol observed. "One which doesn't really...confirm anything." 

Nehemia snorted. 

"I am not Duke Perrington; I do not casually let slip my secrets to my enemies."

Nehemia glanced towards the door. 

"Now, if you have nothing to do but tell me things I already know..." 

"Do you really trust her _that much_?" Chaol pleaded. "Do you really think that because she's a Terrasenite noble-or used to be-that she won't turn on you at the first opportunity?" 

Nehemia's eyes widened. 

"_Nobility_?" she gasped. "Celaena is Terrasenite..._nobility_?" 

Chaol smiled. 

"Aha!" he cried. "You _didn't_ know that, did you?" 

"No," Nehemia told him. "We are friends. We do not pry into each other's pasts when it is not necessary." 

And to tell the truth, Nehemia no longer _wanted_ to. While Celaena had by no means told Nehemia _everything_-after all, Nehemia _still_ did not know the purpose behind Dorian hiring Celaena in the first place-she had told Nehemia enough that she was satisfied with it. Nehemia had all the details she needed to place Celaena within the larger scheme of thing. She knew Celaena was deeply loyal to her would-be queen, Aelin Ashryver Galathynius, and that Aelin, in turn, trusted Celaena very much. Nehemia knew that Celaena wanted nothing more than Terrasen's freedom. And she knew that because of that, and because freedom for Eyllwe aligned very neatly with freedom for Terrasen, that Celaena would _never_ betray her to the king. 

Thus, the assassin could keep whatever dark secrets she wished. It was not Nehemia's place to judge, and it most certainly was not Nehemia's place anymore to pry. 

Except...now that Nehemia knew that Celaena was nobility...it was like a thread, a loose thread sticking out of the already questionable tapestry of Celaena's story. After all, the idea that Aelin Galathynius would have no one to rely on but an assassin lord-an Adarlanian assassin lord-was already quite fishy. The idea that _both_ a princess _and_ a girl from a noble house would be totally bereft of friends and allies...that made even _less_ sense. 

Like...did Celaena even serve the _real_ Aelin? Had she, somehow, been tricked? Yes, Celaena might have the Galathynius ring, and she might have letters supposedly signed by the woman. But Aelin was also infamous for having extremely powerful fire magic, and since magic ran in bloodlines...the best proof of the princess's identity would be through...fire magic.

But elemental magic had not been seen in Erilea for _nine years-_in fact, it had disappeared a _year_ after Terrasen's conquest.

And thanks to the disappearance of magic...it would be _very_ easy for any red-headed little Terrasenite girl to lie and claim to the princess, wouldn't it? _Especially_ if she could somehow get her hands on any secondary proof. Like, say, a ring...

And it would make far more sense for a con artist to have no choice but to seek help from the criminal element-_especially_ if said little girl was not actually good enough to convince those who _knew_ Aelin. 

Except...the letter Arobynn had written to "Aelin" implied that the woman wanted a _quiet_ life. After all, the alias she was supposedly using-"Dianna Brackyn"-that was the name of a pianist in a symphony. And musicians for the symphony...they didn't make a lot of money, did they? Nor were they usually all that famous-Dianna Brackyn was the exception, not the rule, and even then, only because she'd mysteriously disappeared one day and never returned. 

A woman who was so desperate for fame that she would try and con people into believing she was a long-lost princess was not the sort of woman who would happily fade into obscurity as a mere pianist. Therefore Aelin...Aelin was probably real. But what about Celaena? While there was arguable proof that Aelin existed and was real, the same could not be said of Celaena herself. 

Now that Nehemia thought about it, how did she knew that _Celaena_ wasn't a dirt-poor commoner pretending to be a noble in order to play on Arobynn's sympathies? If...Arobynn had any, that was. After all, a man who had a little girl risk her life as an assassin could hardly be assumed to have morals. What proof was there that _Celaena_ was who she said was? 

_ It does not matter_, Nehemia insisted to herself. _Whether or not Celaena is lying to her queen's face, that is a matter for the Order of the Wildfire to deal with. It does not affect you. And even if she isn't-she's been relatively loyal to you, hasn't she? _

* * *

* * *

"So...you have magic," Chaol began. "Have...possibly had magic all along. Which...you never told me about." 

Dorian sighed and closed his book. Here it was. The horrible conversation which Dorian had never expected to have, yet somehow, had become inevitable ever since Dorian broke Perrington out of prison. 

"We didn't start trusting each other until a _year_ into your service," Dorian pointed out as he laid the book on the nightstand near his bed. "Why would I have told you?" 

Chaol let out an exasperated sigh. 

"Because, I don't know, you trust me with all your other secrets?" he cried. "With your secret piety and your fake seductions and fake drinking and secret acts of charity. And, not to mention, the treason you just committed recently!" 

Chaol rolled his eyes. 

"But the inexplicable _magic_? Oh no," he scoffed. "That's a step too far, for some reason. Got to keep the sheepdog at bay, after all." 

"You're not a sheepdog," Dorian insisted. "You haven't been in years!" 

"Then why didn't you tell me?" Chaol demanded. 

"Because Mother _insisted_!" Dorian exclaimed. "She insisted I keep it a secret from everyone-from my father, from Hollin-_everyone_. Not just you." 

Chaol took a deep breath in. After a long silence, he said: 

"So...she was the only one who knew?" 

"Perrington guessed at it," Dorian replied. "But other than him, only my mother and I knew." 

"How do you even...how do you even..._have_ magic?" Chaol asked. "I mean...elemental magic-it's been _gone_ for nine years." 

Dorian sighed. 

"I don't know," he confessed. "Before I broke Perrington out, I thought, like a lot of people, that it had disappeared as punishment for what happened to Terrasen-especially since it left a year after the conquest." 

"And that's...wrong?" Chaol asked. "The priests are wrong, then?" 

Dorian laughed sharply. 

"Perrington basically all but said so," he replied. "He said that...he and my father had sealed away magic. _All_ magic, except for that which belonged to my father's bloodline."

"So...you have magic because you're a Havilliard?" Chaol cried. "But...but that makes no sense! If that's the case, then why doesn't _Hollin_ have magic? Why doesn't Lord Roland, or Prince Demetrius, or Duchess Henrietta, or _the king_?" 

"Maybe they do, and are hiding it, like me," Dorian suggested. 

Chaol snorted. 

"Begging your pardon, my prince, but if your brother Hollin had magic, he would_ not_ hide it. He'd brag about for hours on end and use it to torture the servants."

"Fair point," Dorian conceded. "I...I don't know _why_ my father sealed away magic, or why I'm the only one in the Havilliard family I know of that has it, but...I know that my father _cannot_ find out that I do." 

Chaol nodded in agreement. 

"Because if he did, you'd be even more of a threat than you already are." 


	14. The Tournament

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The tournament opens. The crowd demands Duchess Morgana's blood. Sensing a decreased amount of patience in the duchess, Nehemia capitalizes on this by introducing Morgana to Arobynn.  
Chaol attempts to kill Aelin, but Aelin reassures him she doesn't want to hurt Dorian. And, much to her horror, discovers this is true.  
Morgana and Arobynn's meeting causes complications for the tournament, resulting in the final match happening far sooner than expected.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> \- poor Aelin-more character growth!

After so long away from the arena, at last, Aelin was about to be _back_. After this pathetic shamble of a fight between two rail-thin opium addicts that was currently going on below her, Aelin would be back, back in the arena, with only three people standing between her and the position of Royal Assassin.

And then? Once the king unwittingly made the ultimate mistake of making _Aelin Ashryver Galathynius_ his paid hitman...everything would fall into place. She'd just funnel the king's targets into either Nehemia's group or hers, or book them passage on a boat headed for Wendlyn. Better yet-she could kill anyone she wanted, and frame them as traitors to Adarlan. Even the king's allies. 

Wait...her, Red James, Morgana's champion, and the other two joke candidates...was that it? Wasn't there supposed to be someone else-a sixth contestant? Yes...because the last time the tournament had been open, there had been two matches, eliminating two contestants...meaning...there should be six contestants total, not five? Where was the sixth contestant? 

Had someone killed the sixth contestant, and the body simply hadn't been found yet? It made sense, but...who? Obviously, none of the other contestants could be eliminated, but...maybe it wasn't them. Maybe it was...Nehemia or someone in the Order who'd done it. After all, they knew she was Celaena, and Celaena was publicly known to be competing in the tournament...

Just then, one of the addicts managed to slit the other's throat, sending the newly deceased competitor down into the sand. The crowd cheered as the victorious addict sank onto his knees, exhausted with the effort of killing, and from the opium withdrawal. An official came out and lifted the victor's right arm in salute for him. 

"Today, good people, I give you your victor-_Callum Pember_!" the official declared, to the unanimous applause and cheering of all the assembled crowd.

The king then stood up, causing the crowd to go silent.

"Today, you have your victor," the king announced, "But what about tomorrow? We shall see, for the next match, tommorrow's match, shall be Callum Pember versus....Jonas Reeves, the Duchess Perrington's new Champion!" 

Much to both the king's and everyone else's surprise, the crowd immediately began booing this announcement, making their disapproval loud and clear. One person even yelled: 

"That traitor bitch doesn't deserve to be duchess!" 

"Kill that traitor bitch!" another shrieked. 

A sentiment which immediately caught on, for the crowd then began chanting: 

"Kill. That. Traitor. Bitch! Kill. That. Traitor. Bitch!" 

"Great Goddess," Dorian breathed beside her as he took in the crowd's anger. 

"I know," Aelin agreed, staring in horror at the work she had wrought. Because she had done it-by having the Order take credit for Duke Perrington's rescue, and by framing him for treason, she had inadvertently caused this public outrage against the new duchess. An outrage which, regardless of whether or not Morgana had set the Order up, she probably didn't deserve. 

The new duchess's guards wasted no time in quietly escorting her out of the arena, causing the crowd to boo once more. Some even rose out of their seats and and began pelting the duchess wit rotten produce, yelling out insults and death threats as she left the arena. 

* * *

* * *

"How..._dare_ they treat me like this?" the Duchess Morgana fumed as she and Nehemia strolled about the gardens later that day. "I have _never_, not once, in my life, ever had so much as a single treasonous thought!"

Morgana then threw up her hands and cried, 

"And yet...because my _father_ was accused of treason by a mutinous group of rebels, they assume that I am guilty by association! Never _mind_ that I had nothing to do with my father's crimes-never mind there that isn't even any proof my father even did commit treason-no, some whiny Terrasenite peasants say that it's true, so it must be so-and I must be guilty because he's my father!" 

"I would not be so hasty as to dismiss the Order of the Wildfire like that," Nehemia replied, thinking of the many reasons the Terrasenite peasantry had to be "whiny", not least of which being the heavy military occupation and the devastation the slave trade was currently wreaking on them.

"After all, they did break your father out of a heavily guarded prison while managing to leave barely any trace." 

Nehemia knew full well that they _hadn't_, of course- Celaena had sworn up and down that the Order had had nothing to _do_ with the prison break-that they had been framed and had no idea who did it. She also, of course, knew that the allegations of treason against the late Duke were equally manufactured-that it was slander designed to taint the Duke's reputation and the name of House Perrington. 

All of which, especially after the Duke died so swiftly after his escape-had only caused Morgana to grow more and more volatile. A fact which made Nehemia quite anxious-if she did not act soon, Morgana would _doubtless_ do something drastic-if Nehemia hadn't been certain that Morgana had an ill-conceived plot against the king in mind beforehand, she was now. 

But how to get Morgana from point A-swearing emphatically that she was nothing but loyal to the king-to point B: plotting to kill the king in just such a fashion that Nehemia could pin everything solely on the Duchess? 

"You have my sympathies, Your Grace," Nehemia crooned, placing a hand on Morgana's shoulder. "If there is anything you need from me, I am at your disposal." 

"And what can you do?" Morgana scoffed. "You're just a hostage. Can you make your brother stop _decimating_ the royal armies in Eyllwe? Can you pay for this outrageously expensive tournament? A tournament which just adds to the massive amount of debt the crown owes to the Bank of Adarlan?"

Morgana seethed in fury for a bit and then added mockingly,

"Speaking of which-can you fill the royal coffers with some actual _money_ so we can _pay_ that debt?"

Nehemia shook her head. 

"As you said, Your Grace, I am but a simple hostage," she replied. "But I _can_ give you the name of someone who would happily make many of your problems disappear. For the right price, of course." 

Morgana drew in a breath. 

"You're not _suggesting_-" 

"Death is, of course, a most tragic thing, but yet it solves a surprising amount of problems, does it not?" Nehemia said softly, winking as she did. 

"If your friend is who I think he is," Morgana gasped. "I want in. How soon can you arrange a meeting?" 

* * *

* * *

_Like father, like daughter_, Arobynn thought as he watched the new Duchess Perrington and Princess Nehemia Ytger stroll into his study. _Aelin was right; Nehemia is indeed bloody brilliant if she managed to get the girl to come_ this _soon. _

"Welcome, Your Highness, Your Grace," Arobynn began as he bowed to them both. "How may I serve you?" 

_And why do you want it to be_ me? Arobynn thought to himself. _Especially considering how your father met his downfall..._

"I wish to hire you for a contract," the Duchess announced, lifting her chin as she sat down in one of the red chairs by the fireplace. "I want you to kill Red James and Callum Pember." 

Arobynn's eyebrows shot up. 

"Two of the four contestants left in the tournament?" he exclaimed. "Your Grace, you do know how your father-" 

"I do not plan on confessing my secrets to Prince Dorian, if that is your concern," the Duchess Morgana spat. "In fact, the less I have to do with the Crown Prince, the better."

"That...is good," Arobynn acknowledged. "But...you _do_ realize that you are one of the only two people who benefit from those specific people dying?" 

"Originally, she wished to have Celaena assassinated as well, my lord Arobynn," Nehemia informed him demurely. "Leaving only one champion standing, and the culprit glaringly obvious." 

Arobynn's eyes darted from Nehemia to Morgana. 

"I...see," he said blankly. 

_She doesn't exactly share her father's talent for intrigue, does she?_

"Not...to be _disrespectful_," Arobynn added, pouring a glass of wine and handing it to Morgana, "But does Her Grace also note that with my protege the only one left alive, her champion stands very little chance of winning? After all, Jonas Reeves is, I understand it, a debt-ridden opium addict who has survived this far not by skill but by luck? Whereas Celaena is..._Celaena_."

"I don't care who wins," Morgana snapped as she swirled the wine in her goblet. "I just need the tournament to be _over. _That way, it can stop being a drain on the royal coffers." 

"Interesting," Arobynn mused. "Very interesting. I _accept_." 

* * *

* * *

"You know, I really don't appreciate intruders," Celaena said airily as she sat up in bed, her fingers curled around the blade of Chaol's sword. "Especially ones who try to kill me for no gods-damn reason." 

"You're working for the Order of the Wildfire," Chaol snapped, desperately attempting to yank his sword from her grasp as he knelt over her. "That's plenty reason enough." 

Celaena blinked and then replied dryly, 

"Yes, Nehemia told me you figured that out. Pray tell, exactly, what you thought spilling it all to the princess would do for you?" 

"You are often seen in her company," Chaol explained, grimacing as he did in shame. "I thought she was innocent. I thought I ought to warn her of what you truly were." 

Celaena rolled her eyes. 

"Truly, you have a great head for intrigues, Sir Westfall," she said sarcastically. "Dorian, in his foolishness, suspects secret plans from a hostage of a country Adarlan is at war with, but you, in your true _mastery_ of the game, know she is innocent, because of...reasons," 

"Clearly, I was wrong," Chaol grumbled. "I was wrong about many things. For all that I did not trust you, I assumed at least that you could be trusted to only care about coin, that your political aspirations and loyalties could safely be traced to whoever offered you the most benefit. But that's not the case, is it?" 

Celaena laughed mirthlessly. 

"If you thought that, Sir Westfall, it was not because of any fault of mine. You let your own prejudices and preconceptions cloud your judgment." 

Celaena glanced at Chaol, then at the door leading out of her suite, and then back at Chaol. 

"And now you, thanks to your foolish plan to try and kill an assassin in her sleep, you are at a disadvantage," she continued. "For I now have two options: either I scream bloody murder, alerting the guards to your presence, and thus letting the whole world know that you, Chaol Westfall, attempted to murder the Crown Prince's princess in her own bed, or..." 

Celaena then grabbed Chaol's shoulder, kneed him in the groin, and plunged the blade of his sword into the wall behind her. Taking advantage of Chaol's sudden disorientation, she then pushed him off her and slid out of the bed. 

"I could do _that_," she finished, and then grabbed what appeared to be a hairpin shiv from somewhere in the canopy above them. 

Chaol released his grip on the sword and turned to face Celaena, who struck with the shiv, but missed, stabbing the bed by accident. 

"You are a rebel," Chaol insisted, pulling his sword out from the wall and pointing it towards Celaena, "I cannot allow you to hurt His Highness." 

Celaena cackled as she pulled her shiv free from the bed. 

"_That's_ why you're doing this? Really? You think the big scary Order has plans to assassinate the crown prince?"

"Why...why wouldn't it?" Chaol asked, utterly confused. "After all-"

"Because we need him," Celaena told him. "We need Dorian to survive and succeed to the throne in his father's place. Otherwise our plans won't work."

Chaol blinked. 

"You...you _do_?" 

* * *

* * *

"Yes," Aelin replied, although, if she was being honest, she didn't know if that was true any more than Chaol did. 

While _Nehemia_ certainly needed Dorian to be alive in order for her plans to succeed, could the same really be said of the Order? After all, the six members of the now-infamous Order of the Wildfire-Ren, Murtaugh, Ravi, Arobynn, and Ravi's two new recruits-tended to more-or-less hang on Aelin's every word, as opposed to really thinking for themselves. Even Arobynn was amazingly light on criticism and pushback, probably because he was too motivated by greed to stand up to her. 

Therefore, what they wanted was what Aelin wanted. And as to that...well, it was complicated. On the one hand, Dorian was a Havilliard, and therefore, in order to complete her revenge, Aelin technically needed to kill him. But on the other hand...he was very nice. Really, really nice. He had treated her with nothing but respect, and unlike his father and brother, he did not seem to relish cruelty or imperialism all that much. 

Plus, he was _incredibly_ generous with the common folk, so much so that Aelin completely understood why he had such zealous support from both the populace and the nobility alike. His plans for ruling Adarlan when the time came, or what little of them he'd revealed to her, did not appear to be half-bad either. He'd confessed that he planned to arrange a marriage of convenience between him and Nehemia in order to end the war, and to do away with the miscegenation laws in order to do so. Or, he had, before Aelin's first meeting with Nehemia, anyway. 

Dorian also wanted, apparently, to decrease the amount of troops in heavily-occupied Terrasen, both to lessen the strain on the military budget, and as part of a greater plan to integrate the country into Adarlan proper. As a matter of fact, budgets seemed to preoccupy Dorian's mind a great deal. Namely because-and this came as a great shock to Aelin-Adarlan's royal coffers were, somehow, _low on funds_. 

"But...but Terrasen's peasantry...they are..._notoriously_ overtaxed," she'd cried, when Dorian first explained it to her.

"And the average peasant farmer is known for making heaps of money, I suppose?" Dorian pointed out. "Even if we were to bleed Terrasen's peasantry of every single florin they make, it still wouldn't fill the royal coffers all that much. Especially since the average Terrasenite peasant farmer's income has actually _decreased_ since Father's invasion all those years ago." 

"But...what about the slave trade?" Aelin had protested. "The slave trade is..._highly_ profitable, surely-" 

"Yes, except my father barely taxes slavers _at all_," Dorian informed her. "And what little they are required to pay, they can often dodge. Not to mention, the slave trade has also damaged the economies of the conquered kingdoms quite a bit, as large unpaid groups of laborers have a tendency to cause wealth to concentrate in the hands of a few, as opposed to being properly distributed among the many." 

"What about...the merchants? The nobility?" 

"Same situation. The only people my father cares about taxing, it seems, are the people who don't have anything to _give_." 

"So...if I am to understand you correctly," Aelin'd said slowly, trying to puzzle it all out. "Despite having the wealth of almost all Erilea at its fingertips, thanks to...badly managed taxation, Adarlan somehow manages to have..._no money_?" 

Dorian had shrugged and said, 

"Pretty much. And, thanks to that, it's _deep_ in debt to the Bank of Adarlan." 

Besides all this, Aelin also really didn't know much about the other two candidates for the succession. Lord Roland was all the way back in Meah, so she had no idea what he was like. Prince Demetrius, the king's younger brother, was also in Meah, so Aelin couldn't speak to him either. However, she could speak to what Hollin was like, unfortunately.

For she had made the mistake of visiting Dorian's twin brother one day, and, when coming upon Hollin's chambers, had found the young man whipping a very young page boy-and taking far, _far_ too much pleasure in doing so. The boy's screams practically sent Aelin back to Endovier, as well as a whole slew of other horrible places. Aelin couldn't really remember what had happened next, but apparently her involuntary retreat into bad memories caused her to shriek, alerting the guards, and thus putting a stop to the whipping. And apparently, Hollin had not liked this, and had apparently sworn he'd "get her" for it.

No, Hollin could not succeed the throne, that was for certain. And if she killed Dorian, and then the king...she could not honestly say what would happen next. If she killed Dorian alongside the rest of his family, who knows what manner of horrible she might be enabling to take the throne? 

No, for the good of Adarlan- for, of all things, the good of _Adarlan_-it was probably best if Dorian remained the heir apparent. Which meant that Aelin should probably _not_ murder the king's direct heir. 

The idea of which-that somehow, sparing the heir to Adarlan's throne was somehow her plan-utterly _galled_ Aelin. What was _happening_ to her? Wasn't she supposed to be a ruthless assassin? One with a heart made of stone? Why was she suddenly..._caring_ about arbitrary things like the welfare of Adarlan's common folk? About...Nehemia's goals, Nehemia _herself_, about...so much more than someone like her should be able to? 

"_Why_?" Chaol demanded. A question, which, although different in purpose, mirrored her own internal questions so, so well. 

"Because...because Eyllwe will not know peace until Dorian ascends the throne," Aelin explained, completely surprised by her answer, and not entirely sure of it herself. "And neither...neither will Terrasen." 

Chaol grumpily sheathed his sword and said, 

"I suppose it would be quite a shock for the world to discover that Dorian's mistress was murdered. And I'm not sure how we'd explain the disappearance of Celaena Sardothien on top of that." 

"So...you're not going to try and kill me?" Aelin asked, blinking in surprise. 

"Not unless you rebels change your mind and decide you want Dorian dead after all," Chaol told her. 

* * *

* * *

"Your Majesty, I am afraid that," the official began as the royal family sat in their box, above the empty arena. "Red James and Callum Pember have...they have both been killed." 

Dorian let out a gasp. 

_Another murder?_ he thought, horrified. _But...but that leaves only two culprits...me and Morgana Perrington. _

"What? Why? How?" the king demanded. "Who did this?" 

"We do not know, Your Majesty," the official said, shaking his head. "But we do know that the tournament cannot proceed as planned today. We will have to postpone-" 

"No!" Prince Hollin cried, stamping his foot in impatience. "We've had _enough_ postponements! I want _someone_ to die in that sand, and I want them to die _today_!" 

_But of course_, Dorian thought, rolling his eyes. _We must have more blood sport_. _Great Goddess forbid we should be above such savagery or anything like that. _

"But Your Highness, we only have two contestants _left_," the official pleaded. 

"That is _more_ than enough," Lady Trelliser insisted. "Tell the contestants to head to the field." 

"But, my Lady Trelliser, if they take the field, the tournament must end today, by default." 

"Then let it end," the king declared. "Tell Celaena and Mr. Reeves that it is time to take the field." 

Celaena, sensing that it was time, appropriately began feigning illness, allowing Chaol to discreetly cart her off to the arena. 

The king then stood up and announced: 

"People of Rifthold, I must apologize: today's scheduled fight will not be going as planned. For yesterday's victor, Callum Pember, and my nephew's champion, Red James were mercilessly slaughtered last night." 

The king held up a hand to silence the oncoming groans from the crowd. 

"However," he declared, "We will have a match. The ultimate match. The one you have _all_ been waiting for: the grand finale!"

The crowd immediately erupted into cheers.

"The stakes have never been higher," the king continued, soaring high on the people's approval. "Today, as before, the loser will die. But the victor...the victor will go on to win the tournament...and their _pardon_!" 

_And the position of Royal Assassin_, Dorian added silently. _Which, given the nature of Morgana's champion...is looking like a sure thing for Celaena._

The crowd burst into applause. 

The king gestured towards the western end of the arena. 

"People of Rifthold," he announced, "I give you...Jonas Reeves, champion of my esteemed colleague, the Duchess Morgana Perrington." 

The crowd immediately began booing as the opium addict shuffled out into the arena, clutching his sword nervously. A booing, which, in all honesty, utterly mystified Dorian. He had not honestly expected the Order of the Wildfire to be so...calm about taking the blame, nor had he expected them to make up accusations about Duke Perrington like that. And he had certainly not expected the public to blame Morgana for Perrington's nonexistent treason. 

Great Goddess...it never ended, did it? In solving one problem-keeping Henrietta alive and making sure Morgana didn't blame him for the death of her father.. Dorian had created another, hadn't he?

Sensing the people's disapproval, the king then turned to the eastern end of the arena and announced, 

"And, after so long away, a returning champion at last takes the field. You know her, people of Rifthold, you love her, the one, the only-CELEANA SARDOTHIEN!!" 

Loud cheers emananated from the crowd as Celaena entered the arena, her gaze fixated on her opponent. 

"We love you Celaena!" one spectator cried out. 

"Crush that traitor's head in!" another cried. 

The king, for his part, merely smirked and said, 

"May the best one win. Begin!" 


	15. Witches on Wyverns

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Aelin wins the tournament. But the victory is hollow, and causes her to realize that maybe violence and vengeance aren't everything.  
Meanwhile, Asterin heads up to Morath and frees some witches. This, naturally, causes problems for everyone else.
> 
> Chaol, in a moment of stress, angstily confesses his feelings to Dorian.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> -yay! Chaol and Dorian have confessed their love and now share their first kiss!!!

This was it. This was the _final match_ of the tournament. The one that decided _everything_. 

One would think, for such a momentous occasion, that Aelin's opponent would not be a rail-thin, hollow-eyed drug addict struggling to hold his sword. That her final opponent, would, you know, be an _appropriate challenge_. One who had, you know, proven himself, _earned_ his place as a finalist.

But then again, how fair _was_ this tournament, really? Could you really _earn_ anything in a tournament designed by a tyrant? 

Aelin studied her opponent, this Jonas Reeves, the Duchess Morgana's glorious Champion. Rather than study her back, he simply stared blankly, with heavy bags under his eyes, as if he'd been unable to sleep.

And rather than armor, or anything practical, he was dressed in a simple rough linen shirt, breeches, and boots. Yes, Aelin knew this match was rather impromptu, but his handlers should have known better. They also should have given him a different sword to use. 

For, of all the swords they could have given him, why a _rapier_? A rapier was a nobleman's dueling sword, the sort of weapon reserved for bouts of honor between aristocrats, and beyond that, use as a fashion accessory. 

It certainly wasn't because Mr. Reeves knew how to _use_ it. His stance with it was sloppy, and he looked like this was the first time he'd ever _held_ one, let alone _used_ one. 

Jonas Reeves, the Duchess Perrington's champion, stepped forward and swung his rapier at Aelin. Aelin effortless sidetepped the swing, and the miss, combined with his terrible fencing stance, caused Jonas to stumble and lean forward a bit much.

Thus Aelin was given the perfect opportunity to slash at his side with one of her daggers. Jonas, in response, put his hand to the wound, desperately shuffled back, and turned to attack her once more. 

Jonas swung his sword at Aelin's head, but Aelin leaned back in time to dodge. Aelin then raised her dagger to block the rapier and keep it out of the way, then leaned back in and stabbed Jonas in the chest. 

Jonas staggered back, and moved his free hand to cover the hole in his chest, causing him to lower his sword arm as he did. Aelin then took the opportunity to stab Jonas again, this time in the stomach. Jonas moved his sword arm to cover the bleeding and sank onto his knees in the sand, the crowd cheering as he went down. 

"CE-LAE-NA! CE-LAE-NA!" the people roared, thoroughly happy that she had defeated him.

They were cheering her name, just as they had when she'd beaten Cain. Back then, it had felt good, amazing, to hear the praise of the people as they shouted her name. But now, hearing the crowd shout her name in adulation, it just felt...hollow. 

But why? Aelin was one blow away from a permanent place at court, from the power to rain down sweet, sweet vengeance on the Havilliards. If anything, Aelin should be more thrilled now than she was then. So why...why didn't it make her happy? 

"Please..." Jonas croaked, his dark eyes staring up hers. "Just...end it, already. You've already won." 

Aelin sighed and stabbed Jonas in the throat. Blood gushed from the wound as his dead body fell onto the sands.

"People of Rifthold," the king announced as Aelin turned to face the crowd. "I give you your Champion, your victor-CELAENA SARDOTHIEN!" 

A raucous cheer went up from the stands as an official went to place a garland of red flowers around Aelin's neck. The wreath of victory. 

That did it. Aelin had officially won the appointment of Royal Assassin. And a royal pardon besides. From now on, the Havilliards were _officially_ at her mercy. 

So why didn't that make her happy, dammit? 

***

That night, Aelin strode through the ballroom, bedecked in black leather armor, as was befitting of her new position, her hair pulled back in a simple braid. She was the one note of simplicity in an otherwise unfathomably ostentatious celebration. Every single member of the peerage was decked out in their finest, and the royal family was no exception. The buffet tables groaned with a magnificent feast, one which must have been quite the burden on the kitchen staff to prepare. 

And as Aelin strode through, towards the royal family on their dais, the musicians played a rousing, imperious march, one at which every nobleman here stood at attention for, all eyes on Aelin. 

And all of this was for _her_. No, not for her-for who they thought she was. Celaena Sardothien, the assassin who'd just won a grand tourney in Prince Dorian's name. Great Goddess knew, if they knew who all this was _really_ celebrating-if they knew that they were putting this all on for _Aelin Ashryver Galathynius-_they'd likely all have a collective heart attack. 

But then again, if they knew who she was, Aelin would probably not be here at all. She'd most likely either be dead or awaiting her execution in a jail cell. 

Aelin walked up to the dais, and knelt down on one knee before the royal family. 

"People of Adarlan," the king began, "I present to you the victor of the grand tournament, Adarlan's champion, Celaena Sardothien." 

A polite and refined round of applause briefly ensued before the king stood up, withdrew a document with the royal seal on it, and presented it to Aelin. 

"As was promised, I now officially present the victor with a royal pardon," the king declared. "Henceforth let it be known that Celaena Sardothien, formerly of the Assassin's Guild, is hereby pardoned of any and all crimes she has committed, by myself His Majesty King Dorian Havilliard I. You may now rise, Miss Sardothien." 

The nobles applauded politely as Aelin took the pardon and stood up. 

"I am grateful, Your Majesty," Aelin said politely, "For the mercy you have shown regarding my crimes." 

Aelin then turned to Dorian, bowed, and said, 

"And I thank His Highness the Crown Prince Dorian for sponsoring me, and allowing me to attain this victory." 

The king clapped his hands and announced, 

"Now let the festitivities...begin!" 

And that they did-there was much feasting, dancing, and drinking to be had that night. None of which, however, lessened Aelin's unrest. 

Nor did the swearing-in as Royal Assassin Aelin had to do the morning after in the council chambers, or the various celebrations Aelin attended as Dorian's mistress. It was only two days afterwards, during a teatime visit with Nehemia, did a solution begin to present itself. 

"I sense, Celaena, that you are quite unhappy, " Nehemia said as she poured herself some more tea. "Yet for the life of me I cannot figure out why. Everything is going well, is it not?" 

"That's just the thing," Aelin grumbled, as she stirred some sugar into her tea. "Everything is going well. I'm the Royal Assassin, you've slowly but surely been wrapping Morgana around your little finger-everything is looking up. Yet, for some reason, none of it makes me happy." 

"Is there...trouble with Her Highness?" Nehemia asked as she took a sip of tea. "Are things...hitting a rough patch with her?" 

"_What_?" Aelin cried. "No, no-things are going great-just fine with Aelin. She's...she's thrilled. It's just...the final match...it was all so anticlimactic." 

Nehemia raised an eyebrow. 

"Anti...climactic?" 

"Yeah," Aelin said. "I was...I was expecting that the final match would be, you know, against some seriously tough opponent. Like...one of the other Champions, or something-one of the other _real_ Champions, not Morgana's shoddy excuse for one." 

Nehemia chuckled. 

"You truly are a bloodthirsty creature, Miss Sardothien. Woe betide anyone who ever stands against you." 

"That's...that's not what I meant," Aelin protested. "That...that last fight...it didn't feel like a fight, but more like an execution." 

"Haven't they all been _executions_, in a way?" Nehemia asked. "After all, every single person in that arena was a criminal. And they all died-albeit at the hands of other criminals, but still. The whole purpose of the tournament, has, technically, been about killing criminals. Just like they do at the execution block." 

"That's different," Aelin sputtered. "There it's a-" 

"Oh, at the execution block it's much less flashy, and the criminals there have far less left to lose," Nehemia countered. "But still-at the execution block, they kill criminals for public entertainment. In the tournament, criminals were _also_ killed for public entertainment. The tournament might have had a few extra purposes attached, but at the end of the day, they're a lot more similar than they are different." 

Great Goddess. They were, weren't they? The execution block might be less glamorous, but they both served a startlingly similar purpose-violent, bloody entertainment, all for the sake of distracting the people, preventing them from realizing what a terrible person the King of Adarlan was. And Aelin had happily participated in it to serve her own goals, completely ignorant of that very real purpose. 

No, not ignorant. Chaol had informed her that it was open to the public on day one. Aelin had simply chosen to ignore that fact for her own personal gain. The king had enacted a great and terrible injustice-allowing a girl with _consumption_ to compete, forcing people to kill each other for their own freedom-and Aelin had let him do it. She had been complicit in it, in a monstrosity enacted by the king. 

No wonder her victory felt hollow. It was no victory at all. 

It was just Aelin, allowing the king to get away with vile, wicked things like he always did. Of failing to stop him when she had the chance. 

But how, exactly, was she supposed to have stopped him? By killing him? Wouldn't that have ruined Nehemia's plans? 

Wait, since when had she started caring about _actually_ bringing Nehemia's plans to fruition? Nehemia was nothing more than a stepping-stone-a pawn in her plans for revenge. Aelin was only allied with her because freeing Eyllwe would hurt the king. Wasn't she? 

Then again, maybe she wasn't. But either way, she had still refused to stop the king for her own selfish reasons. If Nehemia was a pawn, that meant Aelin had allowed the king to commit new injustices for the sake of vengeance against the injustices he'd done to Terrasen. Which, if was true, was a short-sighted, selfish move. If Nehemia wasn't...then that was slightly better. That only meant Aelin had allowed the king's injustices to stand for the sake of allowing the rebels to prevent the king from further committing injustice. Which...still wasn't all that great. In fact, it seemed rather roundabout and ineffective.

"You're right," Aelin agreed. "It is nothing more than a fancy execution block, and I should have stopped him." 

Nehemia laughed mirthlessly. 

"And how, exactly, is the Crown Prince's mistress supposed to have put a stop to an royal tournament ordered by the king?" she asked. 

"But...but...I..." 

"_Without_ committing regicide." 

Dammit. That was _also_ a good point. What way did Aelin have of stopping the king from hosting as many death tournaments as he liked, without assassinating him? Being Dorian's fake mistress might give her power _within_ the palace, but that power did not extend to affairs of state. As for the Order...the Order was five idiots and an assassin lord. The latter of which only worked for her out of greed, not moral principle. 

The simple truth of the matter was, outside of assassinating him, Aelin did not, prior to winning, have any legitimate method of stopping the tournament. And to some people, that effectively translated to Aelin having absolutely no way at all of stopping it. 

Which meant...Aelin was powerless. She was just simply..._powerless_. Utterly incapable of stopping the king from doing horrible things to people. 

For anyone else, this might have been a comfortable justification. But Aelin did not like it any more than she liked the other two options. Indeed, she liked it a lot less. For some reason, the idea of the king being able to run roughshod over everyone, and Aelin incapable of doing a damn thing about it, was downright infuriating. 

But...hadn't that _always_ been the case, though? Hadn't she _always_ been unable to stop the king from doing what he liked? Ever since she was eight? Why was that fact making her angry _now_? Hadn't she resigned herself to this situation years ago? 

The end of her silent conversation with what might have been Mala came back to her: 

_No! I could never hurt her! _

_ There is your answer, Fireheart._

But it hadn't been an answer, just part of the puzzle. That is, until now. Because, Aelin, realized, she had only resigned herself to powerlessness and Adarlan's empire because she was all alone. Because everyone she'd cared about was already gone. First, her parents, great-uncle, and cousin Aedion Ashryver. Then, after Terrasen's fall, her nursemaid, Lady Marion Lochan, gone thanks to that group of soldiers. After that, the _actual_ Celaena Sardothien, thanks to the consumption. After all, it was easy not to care if you had no one to care about. 

But now...now she had Nehemia. Nehemia, who she treasured. And Dorian...whom, she was somewhat fond of. And...most of the Order of the Wildfire, whom, at the very least, she was responsible for. 

And thus, because of them, because of these people...her stone heart was melting, melting into living tissue again. Tissue that bled and...cared. And wanted to do something about the king. Something...more substantive than merely getting revenge. 

* * *

* * *

Manon's eyes fluttered open as as Asterin snuck up to her bed, knife in hand. 

"A-Asterin?" she croaked weakly, clearly unable to believe she was there. 

"Shh," Asterin whispered, holding a finger to her lips. "I've come to rescue you." 

Asterin pushed Manon up in bed, slid the iron knife under the collar's clasp, and cut it off, causing it to fall into Manon's lap. Manon shuddered as the demon-creature exited her body and retreated into the collar via a foul, wicked black smoke. 

When the demon was trapped inside the collar, Asterin snatched it up, declared, 

"In the name of the Three-Faced Goddess, I banish you, demon," 

And struck the center of the collar with her knife. 

The collar crumpled to pieces, and the demon rose up from it, writhing in agony as it disappeared. 

"You...you found it," Manon gasped, as Asterin swept the pieces of the collar into her satchel. "You found out how to free us." 

Asterin nodded. 

"Duke Perrington himself told me," she said. "And then I slit his throat." 

"But...the tournament..." 

Asterin glanced at the rest of the Blackbeak coven, still asleep, still ravaged by the affects of the demons inside them. 

"I'll explain in full later," she said. "After we've freed everyone else." 

* * *

* * *

"Witches...on....wyverns!" Morgana said flatly, staring at her secretary in disbelief. "There is...an _army_ of witches...on wyverns...headed for Rifthold." 

The secretary nodded. 

"They were spotted coming directly from Morath, Your Grace," she said. "It seems that there is a leak in the Wyvern Brigade Project-"

"Hold on..." Morgana interrupted, holding up a hand to stop her. "_Wyvern Brigade Project_?!" 

"Yes," the secretary replied. "The project to create a wyvern army for combat in Eyllwe. The one your father was working on with the king before his...untimely demise." 

"Wait, you're telling me," Morgana gasped, "That my father's claims about the king raising a wyvern army were _real_?!" 

"Yes, quite real," the secretary replied. "The project has been going quite steadily for many months, Your Grace. Were you...were you not aware of it?" 

"_NO_!" Morgana cried. "Of course not!" 

Morgana bolted from her desk and marched towards the door. 

"You are dismissed," she said. "I need to have a few words with our king." 

* * *

* * *

"He's a _traitor_!" Dorian heard his father yell to Morgana. "Why shouldn't I have sentenced him to death?" 

"Because he was the only one who _knew_ about these damned witches on wvyerns!" Dorian heard Morgana yell back in response. "You know, the ones that are currently about to _attack the capital_!"

The two of them had been it at for _hours_, arguing about how to handle the attacking witches, how the king should have handled Duke Perrington, the merits of mounting a wvyern army in the first place...clearly, even if one of them _did_ unlock the doors to the council chamber, whatever meeting took place was not going to be productive. 

Dorian turned away from the council chamber and towards the assembled councillors. 

"We might as well just leave," he said with a shrug. "There's no point listening to this." 

With that, the group of assembled councilors dispersed, and Dorian went back to his rooms, flanked by Chaol. Once they were in Dorian's chambers, Chaol closed the doors behind them and said, 

"So...the witch succeeded, didn't she?" 

Dorian nodded. 

"I guess so."

"And now an army of wyverns ridden by witches is heading to Rifthold. Likely in order to attack it." 

Dorian gritted his teeth. 

"Yes. And something needs to be done about it," he said. "And since my father and the rest of the council isn't going to solve this, it's up to us."

"_US_?!" Chaol cried. "As in, you and I?"

Dorian nodded.

"Who _else _did you think I meant?" he asked. 

"Your Highness, this is not court politics," Chaol cried. "This army is not going to be outmaneuvered with a well-planned intrigue-"

"No, but if we negotiate with them, they might be persuaded not to attack Rifthold," Dorian replied. "Now the trick will be getting permission from my father-" 

"You want to _parley_ with them?!" Chaol exclaimed. "Your Highness, I cannot sanction that. It is far too dangerous-" 

"And doing _nothing_ is even _more_ dangerous!" Dorian countered. "If we leave to this my father and the council, Rifthold will be a pile of a rubble, and we will all be dead." 

"I know," Chaol snapped. "It's just..." 

"It's just what?" Dorian demanded. "Do you think I'm not capable of it? That I'm too much of a spoiled brat for this mission?" 

"No!" Chaol cried. "It's because I love you too much! Too much to let you do this!" 

Dorian's jaw dropped. 

Had...Chaol just said what Dorian thought he said? No. It couldn't be. Chaol was too noble, too full of integrity, to ever- 

"You..._love me too much_? Explain...what you mean by that, exactly," Dorian asked. 

And to Dorian's surprise, Chaol looked exactly as nervous as Dorian felt. Taking a deep breath, Chaol replied, slowly but surely: 

"I...I mean exactly what I said, Your Highness. I..._love_ you."

I love...you. No. It couldn't be. Did Chaol...did Chaol actually reciprocate Dorian's strange feelings, on some level?

"Not as a friend, I take it," Dorian gasped, utterly shocked by this development. 

Chaol shook his head. 

"No. It is much, _much_ deeper than that, Your Highness. I love you the way men love women in songs and stories, the way star-crossed lovers destined for death do. You are the other half of my soul, and I do not think there is anything in this world that could ever make me stop loving you." 

Well. If ever there was a love confession, that was it. There was no doubt about it. Chaol reciprocated his feelings. Reciprocated in the worst way possible. 

"I...need some air," Dorian gasped, before rushing out of his chambers and into the hall. 

Once there, he ran through the corridors, out of the palace and into the stables, saddling his horse for what Dorian intended to be a long ride. 

* * *

* * *

Fuck. Chaol had _really_ screwed it up, hadn't he? 

Dorian knew. He knew it all now. And he didn't reciprocate. Not in the slightest. Just as Chaol had suspected. 

Well, why should he? Dorian was a man of integrity-so much so that he was downright naive. _Especially_ when it came to sex and love. For while Queen Georgiana had educated her son on a number of things, the topic of love, sex, and relationships had not been one of those things. And the King of Adarlan? He barely paid attention to Dorian unless he had to; educating him about matters f the heart was not on his list of priorities. In fact, it was entirely possible that prior to this, Dorian had no idea that homosexuality was even a _thing_. 

And Chaol had utterly shattered Dorian's delusions. About him, their friendship...everything. 

He had to explain. Had to try and make things better. Fortunately, Chaol knew exactly where Dorian had gone. 

One trip to the stables later, Chaol was saddled up on a horse and galloping through the game park after Dorian. Eventually, after a while, he found Dorian sitting on a rock as letting his horse drink out of a nearby pond. 

Chaol dismounted and walked up to Dorian. 

"Your Highness," he began nervously, "I am sorry for any distress my..._confession_ may have caused you. I know you do not return my feelings-" 

Dorian turned to Chaol, tears in his eyes as he said: 

"That's just the thing, Chaol. I do. I love you with all my heart, and not as a friend, either." 

Chaol's eyes widened. 

"You...you do?" Chaol stuttered, utterly stunned. 

"Yes," Dorian replied, wiping his eyes. "I tried...I've tried to push the feelings down, but-I...I just can't. Not anymore." 

"But...you...you've _enjoyed_ kissing girls," Chaol gasped. "I've...I've seen you. On...multiple occasions, kissing women and liking it." 

Dorian laughed bitterly. 

"I know," he acknowledged. "I...don't know how, but for some reason, I manage to be only _half_ pervert. I'm capable enough of liking and lusting after women, which should protect me, but...somehow, I also end up falling in love with _you_." 

Dorian took a deep breath and said, 

"The priests say that...most people with my...with our perversion...they...they only like the same sex. Is that...is that true of you?" 

Chaol nodded. 

"I've never wanted a woman. Not in my entire life," he told Dorian. 

"Then...then I should dismiss you as my bodyguard," Dorian began. "Find someone else. If we...if we continue on like this, we'll only further serve to ruin each others' chances of recovery." 

"NO!" Chaol cried. "Don't you dare, Your Highness!" 

Dorian blinked. 

"Why...why not?" 

"Because...because I'd rather die than be parted from you," Chaol explained. "And knowing that you feel the same way...if this is a perversion, then I don't want to be normal." 

He and Dorian stared at each other for a while, until, eventually, they melted into each others' arms and shared a kiss. 


	16. Companionship

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Aedion Ashryver attends his first meeting of the Order of the Wildfire. Aelin recognizes him, but is dismayed that Aedion has no interest in reconnecting with his cousin. Nehemia is worried about what Morgana's poor reaction to current events means for the future.  
Aelin thus comes up with a risky idea for proving her lineage to Aedion.  
Chaol and Dorian unlearn internalized homophobia.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> -Rowan is DISTINCTLY not going to be here to fuck Aelin. He is going to be an elder immortal dude whose sole purpose is to mentor other characters. In fact, I doubt the two will ever meet in this.  
\- I have decided that the wyverns' canonical inability to breathe fire is bullshit. Here they can totally breathe fire. I have also decided they are a naturally occurring species in the Ferian Gap, for added awesome.  
\- And also, did you think I WOULDN'T create a solution to as to how Dorian and the king can't put two and two together about Aelin? No. That is not how this fic rolls.  
-Morgana is not SUPPOSED to come off as intelligent. She's supposed to be something of a Cersei Lannister type, albeit slightly more wholesome.

When Ravi had introduced him to the Order of the Wildfire, Aedion had somehow pictured..._more. _As in, he'd expected it to consist of more than _five people_. Five people, excluding him and Kyllian, his fellow recruit, of course.

And those five people were also _all nobility_. Or, _former_ nobility, technically, but the point still stood. Between the two exiled lords of Allsbrook, the disgraced Arobynn Hamel, Celaena Sardothien herself, and of course, Ravi herself-twin sister to Suria's former lord-a people's revolution, this was clearly not. 

And of course, adding two new people had not done much for representing a broader slice of Terrasen. Of the now _seven_ of them, only Kyllian was an actual, unambiguously non-aristocrat voice, because he was a peasant. 

Aedion was...a far more ambiguous case at _best_. As far as his clearest memories revealed to him, Aedion had been a peasant farmer for most of his life, living simply with Kyllian and his family until Adarlan's soldiers had burned down their home out of spite. Then, the two of them were taken in by Rowan Whitethorn, who claimed that he was the emissary of Queen Maeve of Doranelle in Wendlyn. 

But then again, Aedion's clearest, least fragmented memories were _also_ those of events that happened after the age of thirteen, which was how old he'd been when Adarlan invaded Terrasen. 

As to his life _prior_ to the age of thirteen...it was mostly a complete blank, with only small fragments of memory in between the gaping holes. But those fragments of memory...they were damning. Because many of them involved him being at the royal palace in Orynth-living at the royal palace in Orynth. And many of the faces of the people in those memories-they felt _suspiciously_ like the Galathynius royal dynasty. 

As to why he was living in the palace, he didn't know; he couldn't remember his parents at all, just the palace, and the Galathyniuses. Therefore, his parents could technically have been anyone-but judging by his proximity to the royals, Aedion strongly suspected he'd been at _least_ an aristocrat prior to everything turning to shit. 

Thus, despite technically being an orphan taken in by peasant farmers, Aedion had the sneaking feeling he could not, not at all, count himself as a non-aristocrat voice within the Order, let alone freely identify as a commoner like Kyllian. 

And now, sitting around a table at his very first meeting of the famous Order of the Wildfire, Aedion was not sure that he liked being a part of this. Namely because of what their illustrious leader, Celaena Sardothien, was currently announcing to them all. 

"So, as you have heard," she declared proudly, pacing back and forth in front of them, "There is an army of wyverns ridden by Ironteeth witches headed _straight_ for Rifthold. This, while unequivocally bad news for Adarlan's richest and finest-especially thanks to what is sure to be His Majesty's _stellar_ mishandling of the crisis-might not be so terrible for us."

"WHAT?!!!" Aedion cried, rising out of his chair in shock. "ARE YOU _KIDDING_ ME?! HOW IN MALA'S BLESSED NAME IS THAT NOT _ABSOLUTELY HORRIBLE_?!" 

Everyone seated at the little round table in the secret underground chamber beneath the palace gasped in unison, and then proceeded to stare at Aedion. 

"Aedion!" Ravi exclaimed, her face flush with embarrassment. "Celaena is Her Highness's most trusted lieutenant-" 

"That may _be_," Aedion snapped, "But she's also an _idiot_. A spoiled noble idiot like the rest of you, who has forgotten that we are all currently_ living_ in Rifthold! Which means that if the witches are attacking Rifthold, they're also attacking _us_!"

Aedion turned to look at Celaena square in the eyes, eyes which were a disconcertingly familiar shade of turquoise, ringed with gold. Eyes which were the exact same color as his, which he prayed was just a coincidence. 

"Where, exactly, do you plan for us to live after the wyverns have burned Rifthold to the ground?" he demanded. "And how is our illustrious _Aelin_ planning on dealing with whatever government rises out of the ashes?" 

Celaena, rather than act indignant about this insubordination, merely looked stunned for a minute. Then she smirked and said, 

"I _like_ you. You've got a true rebel spirit, don't you? Not afraid to talk back." 

Celaena then grinned. 

"And to answer your question, as I was going to say, it's not bad _if_ we can convince these witches to join our side. That we are their allies, and that therefore, they should _not_ roast us alive with their wyverns' fiery breath."

Aedion's eyes widened.

"You...you want to send a delegation out to make an alliance with them," he gasped, impressed by the ballsy nature of this plan. 

"Aelin wants to," Celaena corrected. "And so do Nehemia and the rest of the Prince's Friends." 

The "Prince's Friends," Aedion had learned, was the name of Princess Nehemia Ytger of Eyllwe's secret pro-Eyllwe group. A group with which the Order was directly allied with, and who was at least partially responsible for the Eyllwe rebels' continued victories against Adarlan. 

"And the Prince's Friends have already _alerted_ their comrades in Eyllwe as to this plan, and are in the business of electing their members of the peace delegation," Celaena continued, "All that remains of us to do is to elect the same." 

"I will gladly go, my lady," Lord Ren of Allsbrook cried, jumping up and making the traditional Terrasenite salute- a V-shape across the chest with his right fist. "It would be an honor to represent Terrasen in this manner." 

Would _you be representing Terrasen, though? _Aedion thought. _It's not as if you've actually_ lived _there since the invasion. According to Ravi, you've been a prisoner of various Adarlanian nobles for most of your life. _

Celaena looked thoughtful for a minute.

"I appreciate your enthusiasm, Lord Ren," she began, "But you do realize that the Ironteeth witches are an all-female species, correct? There is no such thing as a male Ironteeth witch; therefore, if what everyone at court claims is true, and the army really was one of the late Duke's experiments....then that means that the only men they have met have have actively sought to hurt them. Therefore, sending a male delegate would not be wise." 

"Begging your pardon, but aside from yourself and Ravi, the members of the Rifthold cell are mostly male," Arobynn pointed out. "And we cannot rely on Aelin to supply someone from a cell in Terrasen; the witches are coming directly from Morath, it would take too long for such a delegate to arrive." 

"That is a fair point," Celaena acknowledged. "One which has a simple solution; we elect Ravi as our representative." 

Arobynn's jaw dropped. 

"You cannot be-" 

"And why not?" Ravi snapped. "I served as a diplomat in King Orlon's service for many years before the invasion. Of all of you, I am most certainly the most qualified to serve. And if a woman's voice will be more palatable to the Ironteeth, then that is even better reason for me to go."

"Indeed," Ren agreed. "Lady Ravi is correct. And for someone who is so reliant on our queen's mercy, you are surprisingly unafraid to talk back to her most trusted lieutenant." 

"If Her Highness the Princess Aelin wishes a sycophant, I am afraid I cannot fill that role," Arobynn snapped. "And at any rate, she already has more than enough people to flatter her." 

As much as Aedion agreed with Arobynn's statement-this was his first meeting, but already he was disliking the Orders' attitude of unthinking obedience to Aelin-he could not help but dislike that Arobynn was allowed to be a member of the Order at all. Former noble or no former noble, Arobynn was, at the end of the day, a self-centered assassin lord, and like as not to betray them at any moment.

"Enough!" Celaena snapped. "Now, are we agreed that that Ravi will serve as our representative, or do we need more time to discuss this?" 

Since the Order did not really seem to do much _discussion_, it was thus agreed that Ravi would serve as the Order's representative in the upcoming negotiation with the witches. Then, once that was agreed upon, the meeting was immediately dismissed. 

* * *

* * *

Well. This was quite a mess, wasn't it?

As if the Duchess wasn't enough of a volatile powder keg already- as if curbing her excesses wasn't enough of a challenge-of course the witch army had to go and be a completely real thing on top of it all. And of course Perrington and the king had to have mistreated them, and mistreated them so much that they planned on sacking Rifthold. What other way could it _possibly_ have gone?

Hopefully, Nehemia and Celeana's secret delegation would solve things somewhat-convince the witches to side with them as opposed to outright destroying Rifthold first. But the imminent threat of invasion by air was only part of the problem. The other part, obviously, was Morgana. Who was absolutely _not_ going to take this in stride.

Morgana's rage against the king was _palpable_; Nehemia could feel it in every word the duchess spoke. In her tirades against the king, Morgana did everything but outright state she wanted him gone. And that was _before_ the witch army had been spotted. 

In these past few days since...well, one only need to take the last council meeting, or _lack thereof,_ as evidence of the duchess's state of mind. She had locked the king and herself in the council chambers and screamed at him, arguing with him in a most circular fashion for hours-and thus unintentionally barred the other council members from entering as a result-even _Crown Prince Dorian_! 

That kind of unsubtle opposition against the king led only to one place: the execution block. A fact of which Morgana seemed _distressingly_ unaware. 

And now, thanks to Nehemia, Morgana had learned how to use more _ruthless_ methods of solving her problems. Namely, ordering assassinations. 

What if Morgana, taking a note from the success of the last time she'd hired an assassin, decided to hire Arobynn for another contract? Like say, one on the witches' leader? Or, worse, the _king_?!

Morgana was definitely not ready to assassinate the king yet. She had the motive, but not the method. At least, not a method that would ensure Nehemia's plan succeeded. 

Because assuming she had the guile to successfully frame someone else-and it was crystal clear to everyone around her that she _didn't_-that meant that either the Eyllwe resistance movement or the Terrasenite resistance movement would take the blame, thus putting a stop to any notions of peace or liberation. 

Or, worse, the more likely option...she got caught, and, in getting caught, revealed Arobynn's hand. And once _Arobynn_ was caught, that implicated the Order of the Wildfire...which would also make Dorian think twice about making peace. 

Nehemia paced her chambers in frustration. Originally, Morgana's instability and lack of guile had been a blessing to the rebels. But now...Nehemia knew she had mishandled the woman. Been too quick to take advantage of her rage and guilelessness. She should have given the woman a few lessons in how to _behave_ at court, how to mask her rage properly. Not enough lessons for Morgana to, say, actually see past Nehemia's manipulations-but enough that she didn't, say,_ lock the king inside the council chamber_!

"Nehemia?" Celaena's voice asked from the doorway. "Are you alright?" 

Nehemia sighed and gestured for Celaena to come in. 

"No," she confessed, collapsing into a chair nearby. "I'm not."

* * *

* * *

_Well_, Aelin thought as she sipped her tea and listened to Nehemia list her endless worries about the Duchess Morgana, _This has been enlightening_. 

"So, basically, you're worried that Morgana isn't capable of assassinating the king without revealing Arobynn's hand, is that it?" Aelin asked, reaching a hand out towards Nehemia. 

Nehemia nodded, tears brimming in her eyes as she took Aelin's hand. 

"That's the long and short of it, yes." 

"And...because of that, you're worried Arobynn might sell the Order of the Wildfire out to the king if he was caught?" 

Again, Nehemia nodded vigorously. 

"Don't worry," Aelin assured her. "That would never happen. He..." 

Damn it. Nehemia was right. Absolutely right. Because there was no good reason for Arobynn _not_ to betray the Order if the king caught him. After all, wasn't his primary motivation for working with them based out of pure greed and selfishness? Hadn't he agreed to this mainly out of the vain hope that Aelin would somehow restore his title and lands once she'd somehow succeeded in freeing Terrasen? Of _course_ Arobynn would turn on them the minute he was implicated. Why wouldn't he? He'd never done anything selfless in his entire life. 

"He...wouldn't dare," Aelin stammered. "Because...because I'd slit his throat the minute he _dared_ to." 

Nehemia wiped her eyes and laughed bitterly. 

"Why do you always leap to violence whenever you encounter a problem?" she asked. 

Aelin chuckled. 

"I can't help it," she said. "I was raised by a horrible assassin lord who expected me to kill for a living." 

A small smile broke across Nehemia's face. 

"Well...I appreciate the offer, bloody as it is," Nehemia said. "It's...it's nice to have friends who would commit murder for me without a second thought." 

A twinge of guilt went through Aelin; this outright trust in Aelin's loyalty was incredibly misguided on Nehemia's part. Especially since not a few days ago, she had considered actually betraying the Eyllwe princess for her own ends. And of course, not to mention, Aelin was still lying about who she was to Nehemia. 

But wasn't she lying about who she was to _everyone_? Why did it feel so wrong to do so to Nehemia? After all, she couldn't exactly go about loudly and proudly stating that she was Aelin Ashryver Galathynius. At least, not without getting killed on the spot. A fact which Nehemia, master of manipulation and intrigue herself, would surely appreciate if she knew the truth. Wouldn't she? 

"I...I came to tell you that the Order has chosen delegates for our mission," Aelin said nervously, desperate to change the subject. 

And thus half an hour was spent going over the plans to sneak their combined delegations out of the city. Once they'd agreed on a plan, they shook hands and Aelin covertly left Nehemia's chambers via the chambermaids' door like she always did, and from there went back into the palace corridors proper. 

Where, once again, Aelin found herself face to face with the real problem that had been plaguing her lately: the sudden re-appearance of none other than Aedion Ashryver, her long-lost cousin, whom, up until a few days ago, she had believed dead like the rest of her family. 

Because it _had_ to be him; there was no doubt about that. Was Aelin just supposed to treat the fact Ravi's new recruit not only shared her cousin's name, but looked and sounded exactly like him as a_ coincidence_? No. It was him, that much was clear.

But if that was the case, why wasn't he asking after her? Why did he not demand to see Aelin, to know where she was? Why did he happily accept that "Aelin" was somewhere hidden in Terrasen, and be completely unconcerned about her otherwise? 

Gods knew, Aelin _certainly_ had questions about him. How had he survived? Where had he _been_ all this time? Who did Aelin owe an enormous debt to for protecting him? What had _happened_ to him in the ten years since their separation? 

Of course, Aelin was _hardly_ surprised that Aedion failed to recognize her. After all, Arobynn had not been sloppy when he tattooed that Wyrdmark on the back of her neck-the one that disguised her identity to all but him and her. The one that crafted an illusion around her body, one of blond hair and a completely different face from that of Aelin Ashryver Galathynius. As opposed to the reality of Aelin's dark _red_ hair and _actual_ face. The one that disguised everything except her eyes-those damned Ashryver eyes, peaking out of what should otherwise be a perfect illusion.

Aelin remembered the first time she'd seen the illusion as others would see it-in a mirror enchanted specially for the purpose. She'd been eleven years old, and it had been just two months after the real Celaena had died of consumption. She'd been amazed by its lifelike nature, and at the same time, horrified by how identical it was to the real Celaena's face. How it captured every single one of her late friend's features, how it transformed Aelin's red hair into Celaena's white-gold tresses. And utterly thrown aback by how, instead of Celaena's pale blue eyes, Aelin's own turquoise ones, with a golden ring around each iris, stared back at her. The way they reminded her of the fact that she was wearing her dead friend's face as a mask, as opposed to truly disappearing into her like she and Aelin had both wanted. 

"The rune doesn't work on the eyes," Arobynn had explained to her. "That's the only part of the face the rune can't change. Less than ideal, I know, but it disguises enough that nobody will suspect anything."

Indeed, it did and it had, as evidenced by Aedion's nonchalance last meeting. But still-even though she knew he didn't recognize her-it bothered Aelin that her cousin wasn't nearly as interested in reuniting with her as she was with him. Did he not care about Aelin anymore, was that it? Or did he simply believe that she was dead-that "Aelin" was nothing more than an illusion created to string the order along? Which, was partly true, but- 

Wait. If there were Wyrdmarks that could disguise a face, weren't there Wyrdmarks that could lift that disguise? If not permanently, than perhaps for just a minute at least? Aelin had heard stories about evil creatures who glamoured themselves with pretty faces to draw unsuspecting victims in, only for their true face to be displayed on some mirror or piece of glass somewhere. What if she could get her hands on one of those mirrors, and show Aedion who she truly was? 

The king had, of course, probably destroyed most of the magical objects in Erilea, but not all of them. If Arobynn could own one such magical mirror, then surely there had to be more of them, right? 

* * *

* * *

Dorian collapsed onto the bed with a dreamy sigh as Chaol, still clad in full armor, clumsily rolled off him and lay down beside him. Dorian wasn't ready for 

"I know I should hate myself for indulging in...this," he said breathlessly, "But...I just, I just can't. It makes me happy, sharing this with you." 

"Me too, " Chaol agreed, "And in fact, I hate myself for ever feeling ashamed of loving you in the first place." 

Dorian stared at Chaol, a pained expression on his face. 

"But Chaol...you do know that what we're doing is a sin," he replied. "An abomination in the eyes of the Great Goddess." 

"Not in Terrasen it isn't," Chaol countered smugly, folding his arms across his chest as he did. 

Dorian raised an eyebrow. 

"Yeah, it would be," he demanded. "It's a sin everywhere." 

Chaol chuckled. 

"The Terrasenites didn't seem to think so." 

"What do you mean, they didn't?" Dorian cried. "Unless they-"

"Well, they couldn't have, if King Orlon was allowed to _marry_ Lord Weylan Darrow and publicly declare him Prince Consort," Chaol declared smugly.

Dorian's eyes widened. No. That was impossible. The entire country had just..._defied the Great Goddess's will_? 

"And in the Southern Continent," Chaol continued, utterly delighted by Dorian's shocked expression. "Two of their gods are actually patrons of homosexuality." 

"No!" Dorian breathed, utterly blown away by that. "They...they..." 

"One is patron of male homosexuality, and the other of female homosexuality," Chaol explained. 

Dorian blinked in surprise. 

"How do you know all this, anyway?" he demanded.

"Well," Chaol began, "Ever since we confessed our feelings to each other, I've been doing some reading. About _this_. The _history_ of this. And the more I read...the more I think that the Adarlanian church's prohibitions on it are...misguided." 

"_Chaol_!" Dorian cried. "Surely you have to-"

Chaol shrugged. 

"Well, you're the theological expert," he said, "What with all the studies you do on it. But I've been dipping my toes in that area...and I found a very interesting essay passionately arguing against the inclusion of homosexuality in the list of abominations...written two hundred years ago." 

"Two...hundred-?" Dorian gasped, breathing heavily. "But the church says...the church says..." 

"Well, the church is lying," Chaol declared. "And I have the proof." 

* * *

* * *


	17. A Knife in The Dark

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Realizing the folly of owning a magic mirror, Aelin abandons her plan. Dorian and Chaol set off to negotiate with the witches. Morgana tells Nehemia of her plans to assassinate the king, much to Nehemia's dismay.   
The Prince Dorian supporters stab Lady Trelliser at a garden party. Furious, the king gives Aelin her first target.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> \- So yeah. The much-talked about Dorian fanatics have finally showed up.

One cursory search of the Shadow Market later, Aelin was beginning to rethink the idea of obtaining a magic mirror solely for telling Aedion the truth. Partially because the market, despite its wonderful abundance of illicit goods, was predictably lacking in magical items.

But more importantly, what if someone else saw her true face in the mirror? Someone like say, Nehemia, or worse, Chaol or Dorian? Or hell, practically anyone who wasn't directly allied to her cause? Aelin would be a damned fool to have something like that in her possession; something that could easily give her away at the drop of a hat. That could render her entire existence null and void. No, it was better to give up on this absurd plan and get back to work. 

And speaking of work, it was time to get dressed up for the elaborately sorrowful goodbye to Dorian she needed to perform for the whole court. Apparently, Dorian had taken it into his head to go negotiate with the witches- and since nobody else had a solution for the impending wyvern invasion, the king had apparently given Dorian his permission to do so. Of course, Aelin knew the family well enough to suspect that the king hoped Dorian would be killed-or even, possibly, that he planned to send _her_ to ensure Dorian's death. 

Something which Aelin sincerely prayed he wouldn't do. Along with praying that the combined rebel delegation managed to meet with the witches before Dorian did. Both for Dorian's sake and for the rebels'. 

* * *

* * *

Chaol watched as Celaena made an elaborate show of hugging Dorian and crying before the entire court. All of it was fake, Chaol knew it. And given the sudden change in their relationship, Celaena's role was more important now than ever. 

But still, he was only human. And thus he could not help but feel jealous of Celaena, of her ability to publicly show Dorian affection in public. True, it might be fake, but _she_ got to fake it in public. Whereas if Chaol genuinely expressed his love before the court, he'd go straight to the execution block. 

_ I'll be riding with him_, Chaol told himself. _Protecting him all the way. And besides, he loves_ me, _not her. _

_ Me. Not her. _

His heart softened at the thought, at the happy reality of that fact. No matter what she did in public, she would never have Dorian's actual love. Not like Chaol. 

* * *

* * *

_Well_, Nehemia thought as she flopped down on her bed that evening. _We've officially snuck our delegates out of the city. That's good._

One more worry off Nehemia's plate. Of course, Dorian was _also_ mounting a delegation of his own, but that was to be expected. Despite how hard he tried to hide it, Dorian was a responsible ruler. 

Of course, there was still the matter of Morgana. But perhaps Dorian's expedition would calm her down, prevent her from doing anything rash. 

The next morning would prove Nehemia dead wrong. 

"Well, the Crown Prince's off to save our bacon," Morgana scoffed as she and Nehemia sat at the breakfast table. "How wonderful of him. And meanwhile, I'm stuck _here_ with His Majesty and the gang of sycophants known as the royal council. And the same old list of problems I cannot solve."

Morgana sighed and munched unhappily on her toast. 

"Would you be so kind as to arrange another meeting with your friend?" Morgana groaned. "You know, the one that was so helpful last time." 

Oh no. Oh no. It was _happening_. Morgana wanted to hire Arobynn to kill the king. This was a _disaster_. 

"Um...my friend isn't...the most _trustworthy_ of people, as you know," Nehemia pointed out. "If we...if we reach out to him for help with this, he might decide that a pardon from His Majesty is worth _more_ than helping you out, you know." 

Morgana's eyes widened, as if the idea that Arobynn might betray her was something she'd never considered before. Knowing her, it probably wasn't. 

"Good _point_," she breathed. "We need to keep this between us. Can't have anyone selling us out to the king, can we?" 

That little word, that _us_, did not sit well with Nehemia. While it was good that Arobynn would have nothing to do with it, the fact was, Morgana viewed Nehemia as an accomplice. A thought process which had horrible implications for the future. If Morgana was caught-and she would be-and let slip that Nehemia _might_ have helped her, all Nehemia's plans would have been for nothing. Dorian's view of Eyllwe would be permanently tainted. 

Things only got worse later on. For Lady Arabella Trelliser had suddenly decided to throw a garden party, of all things, during luncheon. And she'd demanded that every lady at court attend. That included Nehemia, unfortunately. 

But it was not just Lady Trelliser's typical uncouth, atrocious behavior that Nehemia was forced to witness. Oh no. For while Lady Trelliser was chatting with her hangers-on, all of a sudden, one of the maids who had been serving drinks and refreshments suddenly brandished a dagger and stabbed Lady Trelliser in the back, right in front of everyone. 

"For Prince Dorian!" the maid cried, dropping the dagger as she fled from the gardens. "Our one true king!" 

Nehemia gulped as Lady Trelliser's friends rushed to her assistance. 

Oh no. That's not good. 

* * *

* * *

"How dare they attack my future queen?" the king fumed, pacing in front of his council members in "The nerve of these fanatics!" 

"Indeed," agreed the Treasury Minister nervously. "They should all be strung up and have their corpses paraded throughout the city!" 

"Yes," said the War Minister. "That's a great idea!" 

The other councilors then proceeded to concur on that idea, and from the shadows, Aelin could not help but roll her eyes.

_What a bunch of sycophants_, she thought. 

"But we don't even know who they are!" Morgana cried, the one voice of dissent. "How would we make an example of them when their identities are unknown?" 

All the councilors turned to stare at Morgana; clearly, they were at a loss for how to deal with dissent. 

_If I am ever Queen of Terrasen_, _I'm going to make it a point not to hire a bunch of cowards for advisors_, Aelin thought to herself. 

The king looked at Morgana, fury leaking through every part of his face. Then he took a deep breath and said, in a voice that was much more controlled, 

"You're right. We don't. But I do know who their leader is." 

The king glanced in Aelin's direction and barked, 

"Celaena Sardothien, I give you your first target. You are to assassinate the leader of the Prince Dorian fanatics by sunset tomorrow." 

Aelin shrugged. Well, it wasn't as if Dorian wanted them around, anyway. 

With that, she stepped forward into the light, got down on one knee before the king, and said: 

"Understood, Your Majesty." 

* * *

* * *


	18. The Flames of Rebellion

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Aedion tells Celaena about his amnesia. Heartbroken at the revelation that Aedion does not remember her, Aelin regresses back to her cold, uncaring self. The King mounts the pro-Dorian faction leader's head on a spike. Morgana plots regicide. Manon, having heard the rebel delegation speak, convince the Ironteeth covens to ride out for Eyllwe.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> \- I made Weeping Stalk and the Kiss of Anneith up. Neither of those things are canon. 
> 
> \- King Dorian I is not responsible for the demise of the Witch Kingdom, I've decided. Nor are the Crochans. The Crochans are stupid. I've decided that an ancestor of King Dorian I's is responsible for it, because imperialism is a systemic evil; it's never the fault of one guy.

"We're wasting our time with the Order," Aedion groaned as he flopped down on his bed. "They're all just a bunch of spoiled aristocrats who want to worship at the shrine of Aelin Galathynius." 

Rowan glanced at Aedion with his knowing pine-green eyes. 

"I understand your frustration, kinsman," he said as he lifted the covers of his bed. "But finding out whether or not the princess really _lives_ is _vital_."

"Well, we're not going to find that out by sticking with _those_ morons," Kyllian grumbled as he unlaced his boots. "I can tell you _that_ much. Lord Ren, the younger Lord Allsbrook, he hasn't set foot in Terrasen since he was a small boy. The homeland's just a fantasy to him; a delusional, perfect fantasy."

He tugged off his boots, and then added:

"And Arobynn Hamel's a gods-damned _crook_-everyone knows he's only in it because Aelin _might_ pardon him. The other two-Lady Ravi and the older Lord Allsbrook-they're all right, but even they don't _dare_ criticize Celaena. They all treat her like she's some sort of avatar of Mala." 

"Young one, I have had many fools for colleagues," Rowan told them gently. "But none of them have stopped me from serving my queen."

"That's just it, though," Aedion said. "None of them are even all that close to Aelin, save for Celaena. Excluding her, they're all recent recruits; a few weeks ago, the Rifthold cell didn't even exist."

"We don't need them to be close," Rowan said as he slid into bed and pulled the covers over him. "If Celaena is really as good a friend of Aelin as she says, then that is enough. You two must ingratiate yourselves to her and get her to trust you, trust you enough that she will be willing to talk about Aelin." 

With that, Rowan put out the candle, causing darkness to settle over their rented room. 

_Ingratiate myself to Celaena_...Aedion thought as he started to fall asleep. _How will I do that? The group doesn't get up to much. But then again, she does seem to like me..._

*** 

The next morning, Aedion found himself accompanying Celaena on a trip to the Market, on her orders, no less. The explicit purpose was for buying information about something about one of the pro-Dorian supporters. Apparently the king had ordered her to kill their leader by sunset, and that she, for some gods-damned reason, intended to make good on that promise. But as they went from place to place bribing merchants with coin, pretending to be a prospective Dorian supporters, it became clear that her mission was not the only thing Celaena had in mind. 

"So tell me, Aedion," Celaena asked him in the Fae tongue as they left one of the many shops, "Where you have been all these years?" 

Stunned by both the question and the fact that the for all apperances, fully _human_ Celaena spoke the Fae tongue, Aedion stammered, 

"What...what do you mean?" 

Celaena shrugged. 

"You know...since the invasion." 

_Since_ the invasion? Did...Celaena think he was someone she _knew_? Was Celaena someone _he_ knew before the invasion? One of the aristocrats he might have lived with? Shit. Shit. 

"Um...in Terrasen," Aedion replied nervously, switching to the Fae tongue so that passerby wouldn't understand. "I've...been in Terrasen. Never left, in fact." 

"_Where_ in Terrasen?" Celaena continued as they strolled through the market. "Orynth? Suria? Perranth? Ilium?" 

"Um... _none_ of those places," Aedion replied, still using the Fae tongue. "I've been...living in the countryside. With Kyllian. Or I was, until the soldiers burned down his family's farmstead." 

Celeana's eyes widened in horror. 

"Looking for _you_?" she asked, her voice small. 

Aedion laughed bitterly; the notion of those ruffians murdering ten people for the sake of one orphan too absurd to consider.

"No, of course not-" he began. But then he realized, his eyes widening in horror as he did. They might very well _have_ been. If Aedion really _was_ an aristocrat-something which Celaena's bizarre familiarity seemed to support-then he might very well have been an important enough aristocrat for those soldiers to want dead. Meaning...he was responsible for the murder of Kyllian's family. 

"Do you think they were looking for me?" Aedion whispered, praying to the Great Goddess she'd say no. 

"Why_ wouldn't_ they be?" she replied. 

"Well," Aedion stammered, attempting to shove away the painful revelation that was demanding to make itself heard, "Because...I'm just an orphan. An orphan with no memory, no past, and..._no family_." 

. But how true was that? If Celaena-a former noble herself-thought he was so important that those vile soldiers had to have been looking for him when they burned down the farmstead...

_Who am I?_ Aedion thought to himself, horrified. _Blessed Mala, what I have dragged Kyllian_ into? 

Celeana's expression looked oddly hurt, as if Aedion had said something unbearably cruel to her. 

"Are you alright?" Aedion asked as they reached the palace's side entrance. 

Celaena nodded, her expression still looking deeply saddened. 

"Yes," she said, the word an obvious lie as she snuck into the palace. "Yes, I am." 

* * *

* * *

Aelin locked the door behind her, letting the tears slide down her face in the safety of her chambers. Gods, it _hurt. _It hurt so much. Made her feel raw and delicate inside, like she could fall apart at the slightest provocation.

Aedion was alive and well, but he didn't remember her in the slightest. Aelin would just as much a stranger to him with her real face as with the Wyrdmark illusion. Was this the gods' way of mocking her? Allowing her to reunite with her cousin, with the only other member of her family that still drew breath...only to learn that all he saw when he looked at her was a ruthless assassin-turned-rebel leader.

Maybe there was a Wyrdmark that could restore his memories...one that could help him remember who he was and what _Aelin_ was to him.

Yes, and maybe gold might rain down from the skies someday. Even if there _was_ such a Wyrdmark, Aelin was hardly proficient in the use of them. Few people were; Wyrdmarks were the language of priests and the most serious of scholars. That _Arobynn_, of all people, had known how to use them was a rarity. 

But maybe Nehemia might know-Nehemia was always full of surprises, it wouldn't be too much of a stretch for her to-

_ No_, Aelin thought, shaking her head bitterly. _Even if she did, how would I explain it to her? _

Aelin walked towards one of the windows and stared up at the sky. 

_How cruel you all are_, she thought bitterly. _Giving me my heart back, only to break it like this. _

Indeed, what was the point of having a heart at all, if all that was in store for it was more pain? More tears, more sorrow, more _useless_ feelings? Gods knew, the_ real_ Celaena Sardothien would not approve of this new direction Aelin had taken.

"Listen, Aelin," eleven-year-old Celaena had said as she lay on her cot dying of the consumption, "You _have_ to do it."

"Do what?" Aelin asked, thoroughly confused.

"You have to accept his proposal. Let him mark your skin with the Wyrdmark. Transform yourself into me."

"No!" Aelin cried, squeezing her best friend's cold hand. "I could never do that! I could never betray-"

"_Look_, Aelin," Celaena snapped, coughing up blood into her handkerchief. "Arobynn's not going to give me the medicine."

"_Why?_" Aelin gasped. 

"Because by catching the consumption, I became weak," Celaena told her. "Too weak to join the Assassin's Guild."

"But you're his _niece_!"

"That doesn't matter. Family means _nothing_ to my uncle; all he wants is one of us to be his protege. When I die, he'll just make you into my replacement."

"Then I'll refuse," Aelin declared. "I could never let him do that." 

"No!" Celaena cried. "You have to. If you don't, we'll both die, and what good would that do? " 

Aelin gulped in horror. 

"You...you...really think he'd _do_ that?" 

Celaena nodded weakly.

"I know he would. I overheard him saying that to one of his cronies myself." 

After a small pause, Celaena then continued, 

"So you don't really have a choice, you see. You have to let him brand you with the Wyrdmark. And besides, this way I can live on through you. And you can grow and be strong. Be strong and survive." 

_Be strong and survive._ That had been the real Celaena's dying wish for Aelin. And this...all this...these tears, these soft, mushy feelings in her heart-for Nehemia, for Aedion, for Dorian- even for, to an extent, the idiots in the Order-none of that was being strong. None of that was surviving. It was being weak. It was putting herself in danger. 

Enough with this. With this...pain, this...sappy softness growing in her heart. It was time to take the real Celaena's advice to heart once more. 

***

"His head, Your Highness, as you demanded," Aelin declared as she strolled into the king's bedchamber and presented him with the parcel. The king greedily opened it up and grinned with a fiendish delight as he saw the pro-Dorian leader's head within the wrapping. 

"Excellent," the king declared, thoroughly delighted with Aelin's gift. "Go to the Treasury to find your salary." 

"Yes, Your Majesty," Aelin replied, bowing and seeing herself out.

* * *

* * *

"People of Adarlan!" the king cried as he showed them the pro-Dorian leader's head mounted on a spike. "Take this as a warning! Those who trespass against our royal person will be shown no mercy! Swift and brutal will the gods' justice be against those who oppose me!" 

_It ought to be _your _head on that spike_, _Your Majesty,_ Morgana thought disgustedly. _From your mishandling of the wyvern invasion, to the lack of money in our coffers, to that stupid tournament, to...to..._

Ugh. Was there a _single_ thing His Majesty was capable of doing right? The empire was rotting from the inside, Rifthold was days away from being torched by wyvern fire, and, of course, worst of all, the one man who could solve all this was dead. Long dead. 

Gods, Morgana missed him. Morgana missed her father with every fiber of her being. And the grief only got worse the more work the king put on her shoulders, the more disasters piled up in front of her. Doubtless, Duke Perrington could solve all this without resorting to regicide. He was like that; cunning, loyal, and most importantly, capable of getting the king to listen to him. 

But her father was one of a kind. And worse, he was dead and disgraced. Therefore, there was only one thing to do. It would be for the good of Adarlan, and not just that-it would avenge her poor father. Her poor, loyal father, whose service the king had chosen to repay by trying to execute him. 

Nehemia had said not to use Arobynn. All well and good; being stabbed in the back by lowlifes was not something Morgana could afford at this juncture. But to be honest, she didn't really care at this point if she was sent to the execution block. If House Perrington went down alongside His Majesty, so be it. Nehemia's advice, while good, was only critical in that it prevented Morgana from dying _before_ His Majesty did. 

Now, how best to accomplish this? If Arobynn couldn't be trusted to keep his mouth shut, it was probably safe to assume that any assassin Morgana hired was equally likely to talk. No. Morgana could not rely on proxies. But then, what was it they said? If you wanted something done, you should do it yourself. 

***

After several hours perusing the Shadow Market for poisons, Morgana at last found it; a small vial of Weeping Stalk. Originating from Anielle, it was a rare, deadly poison whose only antidote could _only_ be found in Anielle. Well, that wasn't entirely true. If a savvy enough healer diagnosed a case of Weeping Stalk, and applied the Kiss of Annieth to the victim, it was possible that a victim in Rifthold could survive long enough to make the journey. Possible, but not likely-the Kiss of Annieth didn't cure Weeping Stalk, it only weakened it. Therefore, it was just as likely that the victim would die a long, slow death on the road to Anielle. 

And that was only _if_ any of the castle healers were savvy enough to see that it was Weeping Stalk. To any observer, a victim dosed with Weeping Stalk looked exactly the same as one who was merely choking.

Now it was only a matter of finding the right time and place. 

* * *

* * *

"Flying to Eyllwe will do no good," the Yellowlegs matron snapped. "Why fly all across the continent to die for someone else's war?" 

"I concur," the Blueblood matron agreed, taking a big bite of turkey leg as the three coven matrons sat around the campfire. "These Eyllwe people hardly seem to need our help. According to most reports, they're beating Adarlan's men quite well." 

"But were we not enslaved for the purpose of killing those in Eyllwe who stand against the king?" the Blackbeak matron exclaimed. "Wouldn't it be sweeter to use our wyverns for the exact opposite of what our slave masters intended? Wouldn't it be a more perfect vengeance?" 

The Yellowlegs matron shook her head. 

"Pretty as that sounds, it would be foolish to take the last three Ironteeth covens so far south to die," she said. 

"Yes," the Bluebood matron declared. "Especially when a still-good vengeance is so close at hand." 

"Agh!" the Blackbeak matron cried in exasperation. "You two are impossible." 

"It doesn't look like we'll be riding out to Eyllwe any time soon," Asterin whispered to Manon as the two witches hid in the forest spying on the Matrons. 

After coming upon the secret delegation of rebels in Rifthold-because apparently, there were two very distinct rebel groups in Rifthold, both eager to ally with the Ironteeth-both Manon and Asterin had become convinced that riding out to Rifthold was useless.

For if what Ravi of the Terrasenite group said was true, the king had a brother in the city of Meah that was perfectly capable of ruling should His Majesty die. And a grown son much beloved by Adarlan's people. Therefore, what was the point of killing the king if he was so easily replaced? And if he was so easily replaced, than nothing would change, really. Whoever succeeded the king would most likely continue the horrible policies that had led to the enslavement of the already disenfranchised Ironteeth covens. No, it was better to destroy the empire from the ground up. 

Manon shook her head. 

"Not if I have anything to say about it," she said. 

With that, she stepped out of the bushes and declared: 

"You are all cowards, the lot of you!"

All three of the Matron's jaws dropped. 

"Excuse me?" cried the Yellowlegs Matron. 

"What better word to describe those who would make war on a cluster of defenseless mothers and their babies?" Manon continued, undaunted by the non-Blackbeak matrons' disapproval. A true Ironteeth witch did not care for other's opinions, especially not one that was heir to a matron herself. 

"For that is what a city is, at least in part. Or have you forgotten this in the years since our kingdom was scorched and burned? What glory is it to kill weaklings as vengeance? For that is what we do if we attack Rifthold." 

The Blackbeak Matron beamed at Manon with pride. 

"Go on, granddaughter," she said, a delightfully grin on her face. 

"Is it not better to rip the hearts out of his warriors, to burn his armies and make them run crying for their mother?!" Manon exclaimed. "Of course it is. Burning one pathetic city is not enough to restore our glory. Killing one king will not bring back our kingdom." 

Manon stole a turkey leg and took a bite out of it. 

"After all, did the death of this present king's great-grandfather give us back the Witch Kingdom? No. It did not. Because in order to destroy a king, it is not enough to merely kill him. You must tear everything he has built from the ground up; smash it to pieces and leave nothing but broken bits behind!" 

Manon took a deep breath and cried: 

"My fellow witches, I do not propose we help the people of Eyllwe. I say we crush what remains of his army there, then ride out to Fenharrow, to Melisande, to _everything_ he has conquered, until our enemy's empire is nothing but dust! Who's with me?!" 

All three of the matrons stared up at Manon, their jaws ajar, gasping in delight. 

"I am," the Yellowlegs matron gasped. "Let's go and rip his men apart!" 

"I second that!" the Blueblood matron roared. "Let us teach men to fear the Ironteeth once more!" 

With that, every single witch in the three covens was cheering and crying out for blood, eager to kill any soldier that stood in their way. 

Manon took a deep breath and grinned from ear to ear. The king had wanted to use her as a weapon? Well, now he would see just how fierce a weapon she could be. 


	19. Saints, Sinners, and Wedding Plans

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Wary of the wyvern army's sudden change in direction, Dorian heads back to Rifthold. Relieved by this outcome, the people of Rifthold begin to have an almost cultish devotion towards Prince Dorian. Outraged by this, the king almost decides to assassinate Dorian. Morgana stops this plan in the nick of time.  
Nehemia, sensing the potential dangers of both the wedding and Morgana's potential plans regarding it, schemes to mitigate the consequences of both.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I've noticed a lack of comments these days. Tell me, what do you think of the later chapters? Do you hate them? Do you like them? What do you think? Be honest.

Dorian stared up at the army of wyverns as they flew south, flew very distinctly away from Rifthold. After the last of them disappeared out of sight, he sighed and turned to Ambassador Crowley, the chief diplomat assigned to Dorian's peace delegation. 

"Well, it's official," Dorian said. "A dozen reports of the witches changing course, and now we've personally witnessed it. What do you think?" 

"I would suggest that we return to Rifthold and announce the good news," Ambassador Crowley replied. "Better not to engage them if they've decided not to attack." 

Dorian frowned. 

"Invading armies don't just suddenly decide _not_ to attack," he countered. "Especially not if they have an advantage. Whatever their reasons for flying south, they are _not_ good." 

"That may be so, Your Highness, but we have accomplished our mission." 

"We've accomplished _nothing_," Dorian snapped. "We didn't open a channel of communication with them, _or_ address their grievances, or do anything that might persuade them to leave us alone. All we've done is ride out and not meet with them." 

"With all due respect, Your Highness," Ambassador Crowley countered icily, "Just because we did not speak with them does not mean that their changing course is not good news. Not to mention, if we were to meet with them, and they turned out to be hostile, we wouldn't stand a chance. We are a small peace delegation of twenty men-and not all of us are armed. Whereas they are a veritable army-an army complete with fire-breathing wvyerns." 

Dorian sighed. 

"You're right. Forgive me, ambassador. It's just...I've learned to be wary of sudden undeserved bits of good fortune. We will return to the capital with all haste." 

* * *

* * *

Relief poured from every part of her as Aelin played the role of happy mistress welcoming her prince back, but not just because Dorian had returned safely. Obviously, the fact Rifthold was no longer under threat of attack by wyverns was a relief too. But more than that, Dorian not having met with the witches meant that the rebel delegation had succeeded, and that Eyllwe's rebel forces were about to have a _serious_ advantage on their side. They might even win-no, they were _going_ to win. The only question now was, would Nehemia be returning to Eyllwe, or would the king still keep her as a hostage? 

Aelin pulled away from Dorian after her staged bear hug, and allowed herself to smile giddily, to express the very real delirious happiness in her head. No sooner had she done so however, before a voice in the crowd declared, 

"It's a miracle! The Great Goddess has seen our prince's virtue and rewarded it!" 

Oh, no. Oh, no. 

Dorian, sensing the impending doom as well, laughed nervously, 

"It was nothing, really-" 

But the prince's attempt at modesty, only encouraged the fervor. 

"The Great Goddess has delivered us!" another member of the crowd cried. "She has taken pity on us, and saved us in our of need!" 

"All hail the Great Goddess!" a third member exclaimed, tears of joy and fervent piety running down her cheeks. "All hail Prince Dorian!" 

"All hail the Great Goddess! All hail Prince Dorian!" the crowd chanted.

Dammit. Those annoying Prince Dorian supporters side merging with religion...that was the _last_ thing they all needed. _Especially_ with the assassination attempt on Lady Trelliser. 

* * *

* * *

"They've started _worshiping_ him!" the king thundered, pacing around the council room in fury. "Like he's a bloody _saint_! How dare they?" 

_Well, he did actually _try_ to negotiate with the witches_, Morgana thought to herself, rolling her eyes._ Unlike you, you who've done absolutely_ nothing.

"Indeed," one of the advisors agreed nervously, "It is most blasphemous of them." 

"_And_ treasonous," the king added, seething with rage. "Most treasonous." 

_I don't see how_, Morgana thought to herself. _There's no rule_ against _worshiping members of the royal family like gods_. _Unless you mean you want that worship for_ yourself. 

That probably _was_ what he meant. Well, maybe he ought to earn it by being a good ruler, as opposed to a selfish, debauched tyrant. 

The king continued ranting to the councilors about the Prince Dorian worship, and Morgana quickly stopped listening to the proceedings, since it was clear that this was not a day where any work would get done. Not that there were many days where work _did_ get done. That was, work relating to actually running the empire, as opposed to merely _expanding_ it. 

That was, until the king said, 

"This is it. It's high time I sent Celaena after the boy." 

Horrified, Morgana jumped out of her seat and cried. 

"No!" 

All eyes in the room turned towards Morgana; the councilors fearful, the king's angry. 

"I...I mean...killing the prince would _surely_ incite the people to revolt," Morgana stammered. "They would blame you no matter how little evidence there was for it. And in their blame, they would hate you for it. Why not...why not distract them instead?" 

"Distract them?" the king sputtered. "What do you mean?" 

"Make yourself a bigger spectacle," Morgana suggested nervously. "Create an event centered around you so large, it will make the people forget about Dorian entirely." 

The king grinned evilly. 

"Bigger than Dorian..." he mused. "I think I know exactly what kind of event to stage." 

The king turned to one of his councilors and barked, 

"Set a date for my wedding to Arabella." 

A...wedding? Great Goddess above...that was the perfect time and place for Morgana's plans. 

* * *

* * *

"I can't _believe_ this!" Dorian cried as he paced about his bedroom. "This is _exactly_ what I was trying to prevent!" 

"I don't think _any_ of us predicted that your supporters would form a cult," Chaol reassured him from his place on one of the chairs.

No, they _hadn't_. Because the thought of it was too ridiculous to ever happen. What, that debauched, drunken, womanizer _Prince Dorian,_ becoming an object of religious devotion? Sure, when pigs learned to fly! 

Except it _had_ happened. Somehow, Dorian had become a gods-damned _saint_! This...despite him very publicly having a "mistress", despite _deliberately_ having behaved like a womanizing drunkard for _years_, and having carefully made sure to never show so much as the barest _hint_ of intelligence in public. 

Where had Dorian gone wrong? How had he _developed_ this cult? Had Dorian been too clever in his elimination of Duke Perrington? Was it all those months he'd spent praying and mourning his mother? But no...that couldn't be it. Surely desperate grasps at religion were natural during times of grief, weren't they? 

"We need to do something about this," Dorian declared, "Make a big show of impiety to make the people lose faith in me en masse."

Chaol raised an eyebrow. 

"And _how_ do you propose to do that?" he said. "You already _have_ a mistress, and the people couldn't care _less_. Plus, to truly make them lose faith, your proposed impiety would have to be _at least_ as bad as what your father's already done, if not worse. Since your father is a _known_ adulterer who hosts blood sports for public entertainment, that would be a tall order." 

Dammit. Chaol was right. The king was already so corrupt, there were _very_ few ways Dorian could appear more corrupt than him. 

"Aside from crying out blasphemous comments in front of the Great Goddess's temple," Chaol continued, "Or making our relationship public-" 

"NO!" Dorian cried. "I'm not going to sacrifice you just to get out of this!" 

Chaol walked over and threw his arms around Dorian. 

"I didn't think you would," he assured Dorian. "You are too kind and too noble for that. And that's exactly why you're in this mess." 

* * *

* * *

So Dorian had now become a figure of religious worship. How very...unexpected. 

Of course, the Prince Dorian faction had always been somewhat fanatical. And it was only logical that it would grow in influence as time went on. But this...not even Nehemia had predicted this. Then again, there were a lot of things Nehemia hadn't been able to predict lately. Like how Morgana had become a liability, for example. And, of course, the entire _Goddess-damned wyvern army_. 

But Nehemia was _nothing_ if she was not capable of adapting. True, Morgana might be a lost cause, but that didn't mean Nehemia had to just stand back and watch the duchess get them all killed. Absolutely not. Indeed, it was high time Nehemia disposed of the duchess once and for all. And what better way to do that then to expose her to the person most endangered by the duchess's schemes? 

But before she turned Morgana in, there was another thing Nehemia had to do. Several things, actually. The upcoming royal wedding was a gold mine of opportunity. Nehemia would be remiss if she did not milk it for all it was worth. 

***

" I heard a rumor that Lady Trelliser is pregnant with the king's child," Celaena said with a small smile as she and Nehemia sat down to tea the next day. "That wouldn't be _your_ doing, would it?" 

Nehemia grinned wickedly. 

"But of course," she replied. "I'm somewhat disappointed though, that you didn't hear about the slew of other supposed fathers of her baby." 

"Oh, I _did_," Celaena assured her. "Everyone from the captain of the royal guard to Prince Hollin has been accused." 

Nehemia chuckled.

_ And here I only accused the poor woman of sleeping with one of the footmen, _she thought._ My, how rumors grow. _

"You're not mad, are you?" Nehemia asked. "I know your role is to make Dorian look bad in public. That's why you're posing as his mis-" 

Celaena waved her hand dismissively. 

"Not at all," she replied. "At least, not at you. I don't think I could ever be mad at you." 

Nehemia sighed in relief. 

"Good. Because I have something I need you to do." 

"Oh? What is it?" 

"As you know," Nehemia began, "the king plans to use his upcoming wedding to distract the populace from the Crown Prince's recent achievements. I have a plan to make sure that it won't succeed." 

Celeana raised an eyebrow. 

"I thought that was what the rumors were for." 

Nehemia scoffed. 

"Really, I thought you knew me better than that. The rumors are part of it, but they are not the whole. After all, only people of ill breeding and no sense put all their stock in rumors." 

Nehemia withdrew three folded-up pieces of parchment from her pocket. 

"And that is where _these_ come in," Nehemia explained, handing them over to Celaena. Celaena opened the first one, looked over it, and frowned. 

"A letter to Arabella from her mother," Celaena murmured, "Detailing a plan to purposefully get pregnant with the king's child. So that Arabella...could persuade the king to divorce the late Queen Georgiana in favor of her." 

Celaena put the letter down and opened up another piece of parchment. 

"And _this_ one," Celaena continued, reading it over, "Involves a plan to frame the late queen for adultery, in order to aid in that...first plan." 

Celaena scowled and opened the final letter. 

"This one...encourages Lady Trelliser to purposefully get pregnant once more, for the same reasons. Only...it is much more recent." 

Celaena put down the letter and raised an eyebrow. 

"They're all fake, aren't they?" she said.

A small smile escaped Nehemia's lips. 

"Of course they are. But His Majesty doesn't need to know that." 

"What are you trying to do?" Celaena asked pointedly. "Is this an attempt to break up the happy couple?" 

Nehemia shook her head. 

"Oh, no. Far from it." 

"Then what are you aiming at?" 

"The attack on Lady Trelliser has...made people more sympathetic to her," Nehemia explained. "And there is a risk that the impending wedding might make the soon-to-be royal couple more popular. Combined the two together and people might forget why they hate Lady Trelliser and the king in the first place. These will remind them why they hare." 

"Lady Trelliser has never been anything but a vapid, attention-seeking social climber who treats the lower classes like dirt," Celaena countered. "She could never inspire the love that Queen Georgiana did. 

"She doesn't need to," Nehemia assured. "She just needs the public to be indifferent to her. And we can't afford that." 

"So do you want me to place them in the king's chamber?" 

"No," Nehemia replied, "I want you to put them in the hands of the Duchess Morgana." 


	20. Public Unrest

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Morgana takes Nehemia's bait hook, line, and sinker. The king, in turn, strips Morgana of everything and banishes her from the palace.  
Street preachers begin openly denouncing the king in public. One in particular reveals how the King used the Valg to make the witch army happen.   
Rowan, Aedion, and Kyllian debate how best to manipulate the Dorian cult. In doing so, a plan is formed that could very well untangle the web of lies that keeps the Order of the Wildfire going.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> \- Maeve is not a fucking Valg in this. Also she's not a racist piece of shit either.

"You brazen hussy!" Morgana cried as she walked stridently up to the dais, a bunch of letters in her right hand.

Dorian paused, his jaw going slack as he held his soup-spoon in mid-air. He'd known Morgana was a loose cannon for quite a while now, but _this_? Randomly shouting out insults in the vague direction of the royal table? What on earth was the duchess thinking? 

Morgana turned to glare at Lady Trelliser, who shared Dorian's shock.

"How _dare_ you conspire against Georgiana so?" she snapped. "Framing the good queen for adultery-while you plot against the king!" 

Lady Trelliser's jaw dropped. 

"I...I...I never did any such thing!" she gasped. "I have been _nothing_ but loyal to my king!" 

Morgana laughed sharply. 

"Not according to these letters, you _haven't_!" she said, waving the letters in her hand wildly.

Morgana rearranged the letters in her hands, and then read aloud from the one on top: 

"_Dearest Arabella, _

_It is_ crucial _that you monitor your fertility so that when you have sex with His Majesty you are at your most fertile. You cannot, after all, convince him to do the honorable thing if you are not in danger of producing a bastard-"_

"That's a _lie_!" Arabella shrieked. "A bald-faced lie!" 

"Yes," the king agreed, putting an arm around Arabella as he stared angrily at Morgana. "Please tell me who is supposed to have written this letter full of nothing but baseless accusations." 

Dorian attempted to keep his features neutral as he glanced back down at his plate. 

_I don't know_, he thought as he carved up his steak, _this sounds_ entirely _like something Lady Trelliser would do. _

"Her mother," Morgana declared. "It was _her mother_ who wrote these letters, and who conspired with her to commit this treason against your person." 

"No, I didn't!" cried Dowager Countess Trelliser. 

All eyes turned towards the old woman, who, up until this point, had been sitting eating amongst her friends and acquaintances. 

"I _swear_ to you, Your Majesty," she said, her eyes wide with horror. "I have never, not _once_ schemed against your person in such a fashion."

Morgana sent a withering glare in the Dowager Countess's direction.

"Do not play the innocent, foul harpy," she snapped. "I have direct proof which contradicts any claim of innocence you might make."

Morgana then flipped through her papers and read aloud from them again:

"_It is good that you have planted the love letters in Her Majesty's chambers, my dear. Especially since you put them in such an easily accessible place. But need I remind you, it is still vital that you become pregnant-" _

"I never instructed Arabella to do any such thing!" the Dowager Countess roared, rising from her seat in indignation. "Who gave you this pack of lies, you stupid girl?!" 

The king slammed his fist on the table, silencing the entire room.

"I believe you, Dowager Countess," the king assured the crowd. "You are a woman of honor, dignity, and loyalty." 

Dorian could not help but roll his eyes. While the Dowager Countess Trelliser might be loyal, she was most certainly not honorable _or_ dignified. The old woman was known for her outrageous parties, love of gambling, and general lifestyle of such excess that her _own son_, Count Markus Trelliser, had exiled her from the Trelliser estate in an attempt to minimize both the expenses she racked up and the embarrassment she brought to him. 

The king turned his gaze to Morgana. 

"And to you, Duchess Perrington, I repeat the Dowager Countess's question-where did you get these letters from?" 

Morgana paled. 

"I...I don't know," she stammered, "They...they were delivered to me by an anonymous sender." 

"An _anonymous_ sender!" Lady Trelliser scoffed. "Of _course_! She could never get such a thing from a _reliable_ source, could she?" 

As much as he hated to admit it, Dorian had to agree with his soon-to-be stepmother. This kind of neglect was _so typical_ of the new duchess. Why verify if the letters were real _before_ confronting the king's mistress about them in front of the entire court? No, better to storm in unprepared and without a plan, and embarrass yourself in front of the _entire court_, then do anything _smart_ for a change. Why had Dorian _ever_ felt threatened by her? 

"Give me those letters!" the king demanded. 

Morgana obeyed and handed the king the letters, a proud, defiant look on her face as she did. The king flipped through them, scowling as he did. Eventually, he got to the back of the very last one, which was blank, save for an insignia in dark green ink. 

"That's the symbol of the Order of the Wildfire!" Celaena cried beside Dorian as she pointed to the letter in the king's hand. 

The king glanced at the green insignia again, his eyes widening as he did. 

"Why, so it is!" he murmured. "Arabella, darling, take a look at this!" 

Lady Trelliser snatched the letter, noted the insignia, a smug smile spreading across her face as she did. 

"Tell me, Your Grace," she said with false sweetness as she held up the side of the letter which showed the insignia for all to see, "Are you so foolish as to not have noticed this?"

"I....I..." Morgana stammered. 

"Or, more likely, you knew all along, but simply forgot to _cover it up_?" Arabella snapped, her voice filled with absolute venom. "Oh, your friends in the Order of the Wildfire are very, _very_ clever, aren't they? Coming up with such lies to taint my reputation? But they're not clever enough to _cover their tracks_, are they?" 

"She ought to be stripped of her station," Celaena declared from her place beside Dorian, "Strip her of her title, her position-everything." 

"And _then_ she ought to be exiled from the palace," Lady Trelliser agreed, grinning evilly. "_Forever_." 

Dorian glanced at Celaena, at the seemingly-genuine airhead smile on her face. 

_This was all a plot, wasn't it?_ he realized, horrified. _A plot to oust Morgana. _

Because why _else_ would Celaena be the first to demand Morgana be punished? Celaena had never particularly cared about the duchess one way or another; she had never seemed anything but neutral towards Morgana. On the rare occasion his fake mistress DID interact with Morgana, she was merely civil; neither overly hostile nor friendly. 

No, for reasons Dorian couldn't fathom, she needed Morgana gone. Yet, at the same time, she did not want to _kill_ Morgana. Otherwise she would have kept silent and let Lady Trelliser come up with a suitably grisly fate for the girl.

"Indeed, that is most fitting," the king agreed, his lips curling into a smile.

The king turned to Morgana and announced: 

"Duchess Perrington of Morath. You have been charged with conspiring with the Order of the Wildfire, in order to slander and damage the reputation of good Lady Arabella Trelliser, my bethrothed and soon-to-be queen. As such, you are to be stripped of your position, title, and lands, effective immediately. Furthermore, you are permanently exiled from both the palace and Rifthold. As of this moment, you are neither a duchess nor my advisor; you are only Morgana Perrington." 

Morgana, in response, spat on the floor. 

"So you do to me what you did to my father?" she snapped, raising an eyebrow. "Fine. I accept. I shall not protest this. My father said you were all a pit of vipers; I see now for myself that it is true."

Morgana glared at the king one last time before adding, 

"I see now you were never worthy of my loyalty in the first place."

* * *

* * *

"That _viper_!" Aelin heard a washerwoman grumble to her friend. "How _dare_ she frame poor Georgiana?" 

"I'm not surprised," the washerwoman's friend replied. "That Trelliser woman's always been rotten to the core; I've got a cousin in the palace, and she claims that Arabella once beat her lady's maid black and blue because she dropped a necklace." 

Aelin smiled to herself as she walked into the merchants' district. Nehemia's plan had worked; people once more hated Lady Trelliser with a passion.

But Lady Trelliser was not the only subject of the people's ire; far from it. 

"His Majesty's a fool," one wealthy merchant said to another as the two sat in a cafe. "Treating the poor duchess like that!" 

"Shh!" his friend whispered. "You shouldn't say that!" 

"It's true, though," the merchant insisted. "Granted, I never liked the duchess to begin with, but...the way His Majesty treated her...it was abominable, simply _abominable_."

_I never thought people would feel such sympathy for Morgana_, Aelin mused as she strode towards the temple to the Great Goddess.

Near the entrance to said temple was a street preacher, with a huge crowd of people gathered to hear him. This was not the surprising thing; street preachers praising the Great Goddess had become commonplace ever since Dorian's return. No, it was what the preacher was saying that struck Aelin dumb. 

"The king is a foul and corrupt creature," the street preacher cried, "One who prefers to surround himself with duplicitous and deceitful folk, and who throws honest counselors out on their knees with nothing but the clothes on their back!" 

"Hear hear!" the crowd around him cried.

"His Majesty cares not for truth or justice," the street preacher declared, "But only for his own selfish greed and lust! People of Rifthold! You have seen how he goes to bed with vipers, how he hosts blood sport for his own amusement, how he cares not one whit for the Goddess's commandments!" 

"Aye!" a voice in the crowd agreed. "I ain't never seen him attend church in _ages_!"

"And he didn't do a damned thing about the dragons," someone else chimed in. "That was all his son's doing." 

"Yes, the dragons," the street preacher scoffed. "Those damned dragons and their witches. Tell me, would a _pious_ king have caused Rifthold to be besieged by witches? No! Because a pious king would never have tried to create such an army in the first place! He would not have conspired with dark forces for his own power!" 

Aelin raised an eyebrow in confusion. Dark forces? Like..._demons_? The Valg? Erawan's Valg? But they had all been sealed away a thousand years ago, by Gavin Havilliard and Brannon Galathynius, the founders of Adarlan and Terrasen respectively. What could they have to do with the witch army?

"That's right!" the street preacher cried. "He conspired with the Valg themselves. He had his henchman, Duke Perrington, summon them from their prison in the Void and bind them to the witches, so that he might enslave and bend them to his will!" 

The crowd murmured in shock and confusion, not expecting this turn of events. 

"Don't believe me! I have proof!" the street preacher cried, holding up a bunch of papers in his hand. "Documents stating that this was so right from the castle, given to me by her Grace the Duchess herself!" 

Aelin's jaw dropped, utterly taken aback by what he said. 

Holy shit...

Because regardless of whether these wild accusations were true, this man had just struck a better blow for Nehemia's cause than any she or Aelin could possibly have thought up themselves.

"So you see, people of Rifthold," the street preacher concluded, "His Majesty is a vile creature, who cares not for the Goddess, but only his own power." 

Despite everything, Aelin found herself nodding along. She couldn't help it; it was true, after all. 

"But do not despair, people of Rifthold," the preacher continued. "For there is a solution. A light in the darkness, so to speak. I speak, of course, of Crown Prince Dorian. A pious man who prays every day at our Great Goddess's shrine, he who put a stop to the wyvern army, and of course, the rightful heir to the throne." 

"Hear hear!" the crowd roared in agreement.

"All hail Crown Prince Dorian!" the street preacher exclaimed. "Favorite of the Great Goddess, rightful king of Adarlan! "

"All hail Prince Dorian!" the crowd echoed back. 

_Shit_, Aelin thought as she gulped down her terror. _Shit shit shit._

* * *

* * *

"We avoid getting killed by wyverns, only to witness the birth of a populist revolt," Kyllian muttered as he, Aedion, and Rowan walked out of the Great Goddess's temple and stared out at the incensed crowd. "Out of the frying pan, and into the fire."  
Aedion couldn't help but agree; an insurrection was the _last_ thing the three of them needed to get caught in the middle of.

Rowan looked out at the crowd, which hung on the street preacher's every word, and half smiled.   
"I disagree," he said. "I think we can use these people."

"What?!" Aedion exclaimed. "How?"

"Yes," Kyllian echoed. "How?"

"Well, you've said yourself that the Order brings us no closer to discovering Aelin's identity," Rowan explained. "Perhaps...if this little revolution were to succeed, and replace the current king with Prince Dorian...well, Dorian would be a much more reasonable king. Perhaps he might...be willing to treat with Aelin. But in order to do that, he needs to find Aelin." 

"And you're hoping he'll either find her, or the Order will cough up Aelin's location so that he make a treaty and so that you can meet with her as Queen Maeve's representative," Kyllian finished for him. 

Rowan nodded. 

"Essentially." 

"That's a lot of ifs," Aedion pointed out. "Your plan only works _if_ Prince Dorian becomes king. _If_ Prince Dorian is reasonable enough to talk peace with Aelin. _If_ he can find her or she comes out of hiding."

"True," Rowan agreed. "That it does. What do you suggest?" 

"I, uhh..." 

"Celaena's obsessed with Aedion," Kyllian interjected. "I don't know why, but she is."

Rowan raised an eyebrow.

"Romantically?"

"No," Aedion continued. "Not romantically. At least, I don't think so."

"Whatever the reason, we should use it to our advantage," Kyllian continued. "Use it to make Celaena drop her guard so she'll reveal where Aelin is." 

"That's the exact same plan we're trying now," Aedion countered. "And it's not working." 

"Perhaps now is the time to reveal ourselves to Celaena entirely," Rowan suggested. 

Aedion's eyes widened in horror. 

"You don't mean-" 

"No, no," Kyllian exclaimed. "We are not setting up a meeting between you and Celaena." 

"Why not?" Rowan said as he stroked his long silver beard. "If there is one thing the princess could use, it's aid from her great-aunt Maeve." 

_Except that Celaena doesn't seem interested in a wide-scale rebellion like that,_ Aedion thought to himself. _And that the Order is nothing but a bunch of noble pricks that do small-scale acts of mischief against the regime._

"You lost Queen Maeve's signet ring back when we were crossing into Adarlan," Kyllian said, providing a better counter-argument. "How is Celaena, let alone Aelin supposed to trust that you're really the queen's representative as opposed to, you know, a spy?" 

Rowan shrugged. 

"From what you tell me, the Order's Rifthold cell accepts nearly anyone who claims to have Terrasenite heritage," he pointed out. "I don't _have_ to tell Celaena my true identity yet. All I have to do is join the Order for now." 

"Wouldn't infiltrating make her _less_ likely to trust you?" Aedion countered. "

"Indeed it would," Kyllian said with a sigh. "But nothing is going to dissuade you from trying to meet with Aelin, is it?"

Rowan shook his head.

"We have waited long enough. _Terrasen_ has waited long enough. More to the point, if we do nothing, the King may eventually set his sights on Wendlyn and Doranelle. It is imperative that Terrasen and Wendlyn make an alliance."

Aedion sighed.

"Nothing's going to dissuade you from trying to meet Celaena, is it?"

Rowan shook his head.

"Fine. But so be it. Then let _us_ deliver the news. Celaena trusts us; I don't think she will see us delivering your offer as foul play." 

"But how is Celaena going to believe the actual offer is genuine without the signet ring?" Kyllian pointed out. "Or trust you without worrying how my and Aedion's identities got leaked?" 

"A fair point," Rowan acknowledged. 


	21. Chapter 21

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The king refuses to surrender to Prince Kharis Ytger, even though he is all set to take Eyllwe's capital. Arobynn decides to be a dick.

"Your Majesty," the general reported as he knelt before the royal council. "Prince Kharis's army has retaken most of Eyllwe, and his army stands ready to take Banjali."

"What?" the king thundered. "How? How did this happen?"

The general coughed.

"It appears that the...wyvern army has allied with the rebels. They've been...working together." 

"Why? How?" the king sputtered. "That makes no sense!" 

_Yes, because two oppressed peoples whose kingdoms were both taken over by Adarlan could_ never _want to work together_, Aelin thought, fighting the urge to roll her eyes. _No, all the countries have to rebel on their own, with no aid from any of the others._

"Prince Kharis...Prince Kharis has sent over his terms for surrender," the general stammered, handing over a piece of parchment to the king. 

The king smiled evilly.

"Oh?" 

"_Our_ surrender, Your Majesty," the general corrected. "His terms are as follows: that if you send his sister the Princess Nehemia Ytger back to Eyllwe, that if you withdraw all your troops immediately from the country, as well as all of the officials you have sent to govern Eyllwe, he in turn promises not to storm Banjali, and also not to turn his armies toward Adarlan." 

Aelin's eyes widened. 

_Shit,_ she thought. That's one hell of a generous offer. _He didn't even demand any tribute._

Plus, he hadn't even _mentioned_ doing something about all those slaves from Eyllwe, which left a bad taste in Aelin's mouth. 

But regardless, it was not an offer that His Majesty was even considering. The king got up from his seat, snatched the paper out of his general's hands, and tossed it in the fire. 

"No," the king declared. "Absolutely not. Tell the prince that I'll have his head on a pike." 

"But...Your Majesty-" 

"And be grateful that I do not have yours for failing me," the king snapped. 

Thus ended the council meeting, the results of which Aelin had mixed feelings about. While it was good that Eyllwe's independence was inevitable, the king's insistence upon dragging the war out was not. Also, the king had yet to pick someone to replace Morgana. While the arrival of someone more competent would not be good, the lack of such an arrival was worse. The last thing anyone needed was His Majesty getting more involved in the day-to-day work of ruling Adarlan. 

Another deeply concerning thing was how _often_ Aelin found herself being invited to these meetings. After all, what business did the Royal Assassin have being in the council chamber? Aelin's job was to _kill people_, not to advise the king on matters of state. 

Not that any of the councilors actually _did_ that, of course. Most of them just sat around and nodded their head to whatever the king wanted. The only person who Aelin had actually seen advising His Majesty was Morgana. Presumably, Duke Perrington had also done that, if he was behind the wyvern army. And they, well...

It was then that Aelin realized what she was there for: to destroy what little courage the councilors might have by reminding them of who the king might order to kill them. Or, quite possibly, to observe who she might be ordered to kill next. 

Because the king..._trusted_ her. More specifically, he trusted _Celaena_. Celaena Sardothien, the famous, utterly ruthless assassin who cared for naught but coin. In the king's mind, _Celaena_ was not a threat to him; she was a trusted ally and a symbol of his power. 

On the one hand, it was exactly the kind of opportunity for exacting total, devastating revenge on the king and the Havilliard family that Aelin had sought to create when she first arrived. Especially since-most disturbingly-Dorian had been _utterly forbidden_ from attending council meetings. 

Gods, it would be so _easy_ now, wouldn't it? To whisper poison in His Majesty's ear, to agree with him and stoke his fear. With Eyllwe on the cusp of independence, it was clear that the Adarlanian empire was destined to collapse. The common people _hated_ the king, and there were several political factions actively looking to dethrone him. A little Weeping Stalk in the right goblets, a few fake but damning documents in the right places, and House Havilliard would be history. Except, of course, for the king. He would be the very last to die, because he was to die seeped in the humiliation of being the last of a failed dynasty. 

On the other hand...Aelin didn't exactly _like_ being a symbol of the king's oppressive rule. Of course, not _everyone_ thought of her that way-Nehemia, the Order, and the rest of the rebels knew perfectly well that she was in no way loyal to King Dorian I. 

Of course, that was because they believed "Celaena" was a secret rebel spy for some far-off, nonexistent version of Aelin. That didn't count. Not in the slightest. Well, Prince Dorian knew she wasn't his father's creature- but that was because he believed her to be his creature. Because she'd effectively said she would be. "Celaena" was a shield for Dorian to hide behind-not a very effective shield, but a shield nonetheless.

And speaking of Dorian's mistress, one could argue that the court technically didn't believe Aelin was the king's tool. At least, not half the time. That was because when Aelin wasn't Celaena, she was Lady Lillian Gordaina-Prince Dorian's brainless mistress from Fenharrow.

There was not a single person who could vouch for the real Aelin-that much was obvious. Unless you counted Arobynn-but he would pretend to believe whatever it was convenient for him to believe about her. But that was how it had been since she met him, hadn't it? The real Aelin, wrapped in layers and layers of personas, with only Arobynn knowing the truth-a truth he fully intended to keep secret. 

So why was Aelin so frustrated with it all of a sudden? Why did she want others to know the 'real her'? It was preposterous! 

_Your real self will _have_ to be exposed some day, _Mala's voice said in her head. _If Terrasen is freed. _

Aelin's eyes widened in shock; partly at the goddess's intrusion into her mind, and partly at the goddess's actual words.

_Yes..._Aelin thought to herself. _With Eyllwe on the cusp of independence, I suppose...I suppose it might be.   
_

Because if Ravi and Nehemia's delegates were correct, the witches had no intention of stopping at Eyllwe. They planned to free the entire gods-damned continent.

The prospect of freedom-real, actual freedom-for the people of Terrasen-shocked Aelin to her core. More than though, it stirred a strange lightness in her heart. A giddy, _excited_ lightness. 

Utterly unable to cope with the feeling, 

* * *

* * *


End file.
